


Grey Areas

by GetInMelanin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aristocracy, Black Characters, Bucky is no saint when the smut comes, Bucky plays the piano, Cheating, Dirty Talk, During slavery, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fatherly figures, France - Freeform, Gentleman my ass, Heavy Angst, House servant!reader, I have no regrets, Interracial Relationship, Misogyny, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Racism, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slavery, Slightly sexually inexperienced reader, Slow Burn, So is Bucky, THERE WILL BE SMUT!!!, Tears, Wanda Is A Good Bro, as I bullshit my way through this entire fic, based around the 1800s, bucky is a spoiled rich kid, bucky's dad is also a douche, bucky's mom is nice, courting, like reeeeeal slow, lots of awkward moments, maybe smut?, misogynistic views, more characters will be added, ok he is an A-class asshole, reader has heterochromia, sharon carter does not feature because I don't see it for her, steve is also a bit douchey, team peggy carter, watch me bullshit my way through bucky's family, will add tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GetInMelanin/pseuds/GetInMelanin
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is made of that old American money. You are made of vinegar and acid, rich brown liquor that leaves a burning taste in the mouths of those who look down on your kind. On some days he believes in order and structure. On other days you want to wash the brown out of your skin the same way you wash the brown out of the white linens.But most days you both believe that everything is white and black with no grey areas in between.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erisjade16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erisjade16/gifts).



> Hey all!! Soooo like I'm writing a new fic =) this time its a reader insert because I'm kinda curious to tackle a completely different perspective of writing fanfics and I feel the more I write, the better I get. Plus there's not enough WOC reader stories so this is my gift to you!  
> It's actually inspired by both Assassin's Creed 3 and Unity and then I just made it with Bucky because why the fuck not lol. To make this story as relatable as possible, I have only described the reader as "brown" with no further description as to the shade (because well...yano we come in various shades) and I have not said where exactly she's from. In fact the only thing that isn't ambiguous besides her race, is the colour of her eyes which will play an important factor in this story.  
> Hope you guys enjoy the first two chapters my dahlings!!  
> PS: Dialogue in italics to represent conversations in French. I write bible paragraphs of dialogue here so I'm too lazy to hit up Google and fear it will just ruin the grammar or context if I do.

Your head lulled to the side slightly as you looked out the carriage window, bumping and jerking along the cobbled road that lead to a large mansion - your new "home" for what was most likely the rest of your life. Granted you weren't sold or killed within that duration of time.  
Slavery was a concept with which you were completely unfamiliar. You had grown up back home in what you originally believed was a comfortable life shielded by your mother, who absolutely refused for you to be exposed to the discrimination and disdain she was very often subjected to. Yeah. You reckon your upbringing was as comfortable as it could get, considering the colour of your skin. That was probably the single and only most important thing your mother was willing to constantly reminded you of because she knew, there'd come a time where she would no longer be there to fend for you. You internally snorted. How ironic.  
"Never cross a white man's threshold unless they call for you - not even a footstep on the front porch. And don't ever answer the master, his family; or any other person that doesn't look like you, while looking them dead in the eye. Doesn't matter if he older or younger than you." Despite the forboding tone set by her words, thinking about that particular memory made you smile. She had been braiding your hair under the big apple tree a little ways off from the master's house, where she worked. It had been a pleasantly warm and breezy autumn day, insects hissing and buzzing somewhere off in the distance amongst the tall, sunburnt blades of grass. The warm tones of yellow, red and orange leaves scattered around you as your 7 year old body leaned against her knees. "You understand me, sweetheart?" Her rough and slightly calloused hands caressed your cheek and you turned slightly to beam up at her, two front teeth missing, your smile brighter than the sun that had begun to set.  
"Yes, mama." Her warm eyes crinkled at the corners as she gave you a smile.  
_Mama_.  
An indescribable type of pain settled in your gut as you felt your heart squeeze in your rib cage. She was a million miles on the other side of the Earth now. Had been too old and too weak to stop slavers from wrenching you away from her wrinkled brown hands. The last thing you'd ever have to remember her by was the gold-plated, locket given to her by your grandad - and the tear-blurred image of her retreating form as the wooden carriage drove away with you, her knees collapsing to the ground as though a phantom had dealt a crushing blow to the back of her ankles with a bat, hands digging desperately into the dirt as her chest was wracked with heavy sobs as she screamed feebly for you over and over again.  
You were pulled from your thoughts by a sharp elbow into your ribs. Whipping your head to the left in annoyance you looked at Baptiste, a caramel skinned French girl who looked around 16, who sat with her head down-turned but her green-hazel eyes kept darting back and forth between you and her lap anxiously. You had absolutely no idea why the young French girl felt the need to assault you at random, until a male voice spoke up, a heavy French accent weighing on every word, dripping with disgust.  
"What is wrong with you, girl?" He asked, giving you a look of distaste as though _you_ had offended him. It was then you felt the cold trail along your brown cheek. You had been crying.  
Sniffing slightly, you quickly swiped your fingers down the side of your face and averted your gaze, preferring to look at your lap instead. "Nothing, monsieur."  
He merely 'hmphed' continuing to give the same look of distaste that was now twofold, his eyes flitting down your seated body and up to your now heated face, and then relaxed into his seat.  
The rest of the ride was silent, save for the horse hooves pounding against the concrete and the slight jaggling of the carriage as it began to slow to a halt. The man, who felt it unnecessary to grace you with his name, got out first, his back straight and stiff, hands tucked casually behind it. He watched with a pokerface as one of the house servants, a rather decently dressed dark skinned man no older than 60, approached him quickly.  
" _Fabian, take our newest procurement and what little possessions she has to the servant's quarters. Ensure she is well acquainted with Rose before reporting back here with two others, to assist me with my bags_." And just as quickly as he'd spoken, he was off, disappearing into the large double doors of the even larger house.  
Fabian turned towards you with a warm, welcoming smile on his face and you couldn't help but return a sheepish grin of your own. There was something about him that felt almost...reassuring despite the current situation. You felt your nerves ease up enough to give him a deep curtsy, your head bowing slightly and your elbows bending as you gracefully lifted your hands and forearms out.  
"Bonjour," you mumbled, as you told him your name in broken French, cringing at just how _wrong_ it sounded. He must have noticed your slight discomfort, because he chuckled a little before bowing ever so slightly to you.  
"Welcome to the Barnes manor. Do not worry, _mon cher_ , soon you will grow accustomed to the language here." He straightened and after taking the small sack you had tucked under your arm, he proceeded to walk in the opposite direction of the house. The sack didn't carry anything of great significance. Just a few smallclothes, a comb and a bright red apple that Baptiste had given you after boarding off the ship.  
"In fact, consider yourself lucky. Your employers, Mr and Mrs Barnes', are well adept in both the French and English languages along with there two children, and..." he paused to turn around and give you a once over with his dark brown eyes, then tilted your chin left and right with his finger underneath it, examining your face very carefully through narrowed eyes. It was a moment that made you feel uncomfortable and awkward, but also curious as to why he felt the need to scrutinise you. "Hmmm, yes, something tells me the madame will most definitely take a liking to you." He dropped his hand and resumed the brisk walk around the house to the back where three small cottages were situated a little to the right.  
There was a series of faces in various shades of brown, looking at the three of you in curiosity as you approached the cottage that sat a little further back than the other two. Just as you reached the porch, Baptiste drifted off into a different direction, preferring to engage in a blubbering conversation with a group of women who were eyeing you suspiciously. "This is where you'll be staying with Baptiste and two others." He opened the door and you realised that the cottage was just a single room, a little bigger than you expected, with 4 slightly spaced beds lining one side whilst the rest of the space held a table and a few chairs in one corner, the other one empty except for a pail and moderate sized zinc tub, which you assumed was for bathing. Fabian waltzed over to set your bag down on an empty, unused flimsy mattress in the furthest corner of the room while you remained rooted to your spot with furrowed eyebrows, still confused by his observation earlier on.  
"Come," he said as he made his way back to you and gently turned you around to guide you out the door. "It is time to meet Rose. She will assist in giving you new clothes and maybe assigning you with a few tasks."  
By the time you walked back towards the large oak doors of your employers' house, trailing forlornly behind Fabian, that deep sense of indescribable pain had returned to the pit of your stomach. This time with another heavy, twisting feeling that gripped at your lungs, threatening to suffocate you.  
You were alone in a foreign country where you couldn't speak nor understand the language. You had no family and no friends - the only people who mattered were but a distant memory, seperated by the large expanse of water that was the ocean. Realisation sank in as Fabian opened the doors and motioned for you to step in.  
You felt lost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky plays the piano. The piano is black. I still have no regrets =)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be studying for the test I'm writing later on at 17:30...

If ever there was a time in your life where you did the complete opposite of what your mother told you, it was now. You didn't plan on gaping and gasping at what stood before you, honestly, but the place was _incredible_. The hallway alone was nothing short of interior design perfection, with big windows that let the sunlight hit the marble floor at just the right angle, brightening it considerably as the light bounced off the pearl white walls. In the center was a large, round dark brown table that was probably heavier than it looked, with a beautiful gold-trimmed white vase that held an assortment of white and yellow flowers, adding to the overall brightness.

There was an array of also dark oak furniture - polished to perfection - with big white and gold threaded seating cushions, strategically placed near the windows on either side of the hallway and a grand piano sat in all its regal glory a little to the right side of the one of two staircases leading up to what you assumed was the Barnes' private quarters. It was a much darker, richer colour that reminded you of cocoa and it was also equally well polished. Above was a huge _stunning_ chandelier - bigger than your chances of freedom - that sparkled and winked as every crystal caught in the sunlight seemed to dance if you changed the angle of your head. Fabian's large hand on your shoulder snapped you out of your moment of awe, for which you were grateful as you may have wound up standing there forever drinking in the elegance.  
"You admire it now, but that will soon turn to disdain once you are tasked with cleaning it from top to bottom." He gave you a small smile and made his way past you and further down the hallway and into the mansion, leading you to Rose.  
**

"Rose, _cher_ , allow me to introduce you to the latest addition to our staff." You were never ready for the woman who turned from her cooking. She was a petite little thing with flaming red hair peppered with light grey strands, pulled up and away from a striking face. Despite her size, the dress she chose to wear engulffed the entire lower half of her stature and the top half was pulled so tight against her torso, it only seemed to emphasise her already small build. But the biggest surprise was her alabaster skin that was sprinkled with freckles, and the steel grey eyes that were now looking at you intently, a flash of an emotion you couldn't name quickly disappearing from them.  
" _What took you so long? Charles left monsieur Barnes' work room a good 17 minutes ago_." She wiped her hands on the apron she adorned and held out a dainty hand. " _My name is Rose. I am the head of all the female staffers who work here._ " You merely blinked at her and then directed your eyes to Fabian who had a look of fondness on his face.  
"Rose, she is not of French origin. Charles came with her whilst he was engaged in Monsieur Barnes' business dealings in another country."  
"A foreign girl? I see." The tone in her voice caused you to quirk an eyebrow quickly before going back to the cool demeanour your mama had taught you to put on to mask any apprehension in certain situations. Suddenly the narrative switched as Rose started babbling to the older man in rapidfire French, leaving you a bit dazed at the abrupt change in communication. Obviously she was saying something that she didn't want you to hear.  
" _Does she not look familiar, Fabian? But the eyes...the colour is all wrong, but - I swear I have seen them somewhere before._ " And just as if she hadn't just been gosipping about you, Rose grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the dark skinned old timer towards the kitchen exit.  
Once you had been given new clothes to wear - a plain butter cup yellow dress that was tight at your waist and then flowed freely down to the floor - Rose directed you to head upstairs to the floor on which the private bedrooms and guestrooms were situated, where you would meet the Lady of the house, who would in turn delegate tasks to you. The only problem was that there was a long passage with 9 doors - 5 on one side, 4 on the other - and because you were a bit of a scatter brain, you kind of/sort of forgot which room belonged to whom.

Willing yourself not to panic and bolt down the stairs in a frenzy to find Rose (because you were a black girl who'd taught herself to be independent), you began to slowly walk through the passage, eyes scanning over the walls, which were a pale shade of blue and were lined with various portraits of who you assumed were the members of the Barnes family and household. They were a pretty average sized family, consisting of the parents and their two children - one girl and one boy. Aside from their mother and her daughter, everyone had striking blue eyes that seemed to bore into your existence as if to remind you of your inferiority. And those were just the paintings.  
You pulled your gaze away when you heard the faint sound of a piano coming from behind one of the doors which had been left slightly ajar. With a sigh of relief you gingerly made your way over and opened it gently, completely neglecting the option to knock as you felt it would be rude to distract Mrs. Barnes who sounded, in your opinion, deeply immersed in playing the instrument. It was only when you looked up from pushing the door back to its slightly open position, that your eyes landed on the profile of the person who was seated at a smooth, black piano that was turned in the general direction of the door - and it wasn't Mrs. Barnes. It was a young man, his fingers dancing over each key with so much precision it was entrancing - but not nearly as much as his handsome face.  
He had chestnut brown hair that was pulled back neatly into a ponytail and secured by a red ribbon, giving you a full view of his distinct features. His slightly tan skin was pulled over a strong jaw line and prominent brow bones, both of which were shadowed by light stubble and thick eyebrows, a deep line of concentration etched in between them. His lips were slightly wide and downturned into an equally focused frown as he closed his eyes briefly as if to quickly recall the next key, long and thick lashes tracing the edge of his eyelids. The portrait in the hallway didn't do him any justice because in person he was, for the lack of a better word - breathtaking.

Unfortunately you got such a fright from walking into the wrong room and being caught off guard by how dashing the younger Barnes was, you let out a nervous but audible squeak, stepping back into the door which only worsened everything as it closed with a sharp click. Which ever of the two was the loudest didn't really matter. What _did_ matter was that the music suddenly stopped as a pair of the same soul-boring bright blue eyes you'd seen in the portrait, locked onto yours which were now as wide as ever.  
Narrowing his eyes, he pushed his chair away from the grand instrument and got to his feet, back straight and broad chest held high. Physically, he was much different from the regular aristocratic sons you had seen at the docks or along the streets. Even though he was dressed in the prissy and proper garb worn by the rich, you could still see his huge arms flex and bulge as he smoothed down his dark grey waistcoat and fixed the collar of his navy blue shirt, both of which clung to his broad chest and thick, probably muscular trunk of a body. Slowly, deliberately, he swaggered towards you carrying an air of authority and charisma in every large stride - oh yes, he was that _old money_ type of rich. The filthy kind of rich where daddy was an heir that probably served in the military and mommy was an educated, rich little socialite who never wore the same impractical dresses and shoes to dinner parties every week.  
God, he was also tall and that only added to the slightly menacing masculinity, those blue eyes still trained on you as he got closer and closer. If he had been part of a pack of wolves, he'd easily be the alpha male and you'd be the young deer caught in his sights, having accepted your fate as you found yourself rooted to the spot completely lost in the piercing sky of his gaze.

" _Are you one of my many new suitors?_ " He muttered in French as he cornered your nervous form between the door and the wall adjacent to it. Trapped. " _I am forever baffled by mother's insistence on this foolishness. She knows I have already chosen to court someone. Besides," his eyes scanned over your body and settled back on your brown face. "you're not really my type - far too exotic. Your hair is unruly. Your lips too full. Your hips are wider than I prefer and your skin is dark._ " His hand went up to toy with a stray curl that fell just behind your earlobe before its knuckles went up to caress your cheek, followed by a thumb tracing your bottom lip. " _But your eyes..._ " That last bit came out in a hushed whisper, while he looked at you the same way all young girls wished, upon Heaven and Earth, to be looked at by a boy.

At this point your brain was sending an array of mixed signals through your body. You had no idea whether to be scared or revel in the moment - Christ, you had no idea what in heaven's name he was saying. Whether to mention your error or remain silent just so he could touch you again and whisper unintelligible sweet nothings. Naturally, the former was the most logical - and your best bet at not receiving a series of painful lashes to your back before being carted off and sold again. Eventually you spoke up, not daring to step away from or towards him, lest he strike you across the face out of anger.  
"M-Monsieur Barnes..." You fumbled as you tried to think of how to say 'I'm sorry' in French, averting your eyes to the floor. You already knew there was no need in seeing the change in his facial expression - you felt it in the way the air in the room literally shifted. His entire demeanor immediately changed to that of authority and dominance once again, the charm long gone, and you could feel his intense and angry glare.

"You're a house servant." It was a statement, not a question. "And you dare to interrupt my personal piano rehearsal?? Are you not familiar with the house rules?? Are you touched in the head?!" He grabbed both of your arms firmly, reducing you to light whimpers as his voice continued to grow in volume and anger. " **ANSWER ME, GIRL**!!" His grip tightened and he shook you, eliciting another squeak from you.  
In a very small voice, barely above a scared whisper you answered, "I-I was called up-pon by the Madame of the house. P-please sir, I'm b-but a new servant here. I did not mean to intrude." It was a rushed response, tumbling from your mouth in a series of startled stutters, still frightened by how dangerously easy it was for him to lose his temperament.  
And just as quickly as he'd grabbed you, he dropped his hands with a hot huff, turning his back to you with hunched shoulders as though he were disappointed whether it was in you or with himself, his fists clenched so tight they were shaking. When he spoke again, his voice was scarily calm and monotone, completely rivaling his body language. "Mother's bedroom is the third door you passed on your left. Another thing," he raised his head and look out the window overlooking the garden, before turning it slightly in your general direction, not bothering to make eye contact. "My parents ensure a lot goes into keeping things in a smooth running order. Familiarise yourself with the rules and expectations as to avoid any further...mishaps. Now, get out." You didn't need him to tell you twice.  
Once you made it back out into the elaborate passage, you took several deep breaths trying to calm your increased anxiety, hot tears stinging your eyes. If possible, you would make sure you did the absolute most to avoid ever being anywhere near Master Barnes. You grabbed at the gold locket around your neck and thought about your mother and how she would scold you for your carelessness but then kiss your forehead reassuringly with a smile on her face. That seemed to ground you and once your rapid breathing slowed to a steady pace, you neatened yourself up and headed towards the correct room. You knocked on the door twice and waited a moment, entering when you heard a gentle "come in."  
Upon entering you saw an older woman who was the splitting image of the brooding man you had just encountered not too long ago. Still reeling from shock at the uncanny resemblance, you blurted out your apology. "I apologise for my tardiness, milady. I'm a new house girl here and found myself getting lost in your beautiful home." Your face heated up profusely at your loose tongue and you internally smited yourself for your insubordination. However, instead of being pummeled with a strong scolding for speaking out of turn, Mrs. Barnes simply chuckled like this was nothing new and looked up from her patchwork. It wasn't her sudden gasp that caused your neutral expression to transform into shocked confusion, or the half-finished item tumbling from her smooth hand into her lap.  
No. It was your beloved mother's name breathily escaping her lips...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *le sigh* poor reader-chan smh. Sooo yes...there you go =) the beginning of a story that I can only hope will turn out as perfect in writing as it did in my head. Just to be clear Bucky isn't a racist, he's just a very blunt and opinionated douchebag who has moulded his preferences in accordance with societal standards and norms set by his family and the French society he lives in...my head hurts trying to explain that. Anyway, Seabass and Flowers will be updated, I promise...I just kinda got too hype about getting to the plot twist of the story and neglected to think of what happens next. For now, come and ruin your freshly washed or flat-ironed hair with me in the pool of Bucky Barnes is Bae!  
> Hope you enjoyed and don't forget to comment and kudos - if you don't Anthony Mackie loses some of his muscle mass and Chris Evans gets wrinkles  
> Peace and bacon grease xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little insight into the reader's mom and how Mrs. Barnes knows her...its a progressive chapter so I hope you don't mind it =)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey heeey, I have returned hunnies!!! Two new chapters for you...when I said slow burn, I really meant it. But there will be a few flashes in the pan here and there ;) so enjoy!!! Thanks for the comments and kudos lovelies

Winifred Clara Barnes didn't believe in ghosts. She was raised to be a good Christian woman, who would go to church every Sunday and attend youth every Thursday when she was a still a young, unmarried maiden living with her daddy in a house full of servants at her beck and call. She'd attended every single Easter Sunday brunch at the Hollister's, stuffed what felt like hundreds of turkeys for Thanksgiving and had _always_ made sure to leave a generous gift in the socks hanging over the fireplace late on Christmas night, after her parents and their guests retired to their beds once the dinner party came to an end. It was actually how she met her husband.  
Yes, Mrs. Barnes thought she had been one hell of a dutiful Christian woman all her life, who believed the good went to Heaven when they died, while the sinners were made to pay for their wrongdoings elsewhere. As far as she understood from Father Reginald's sermons, there was no in between. No such thing as ghosts...so why was there one standing in front of her right now? She took a moment to gather herself, inhaling and exhaling deeply while she felt the colour come back to her paled face.  
She had been absolutely stunned into silence, her ability to perform basic motor skills - such as the sewing that was long forgotten on her thighs - abandoning her when she saw the young girl's striking resemblance to a woman, whose face and smile had long since disappeared from her memory, just like the morning mist lining the docks she left behind all those years ago. The woman's name had accidentally slipped from her lips, adding more confusion to an already uncomfortable and awkward situation. But as she continued to study the young woman's face, her eyes locking on those mesmerizing orbs across the room, images of another woman at various stages of pregnancy filtered through from the mental catacombs of Winnie's young adult life. _That's right_! She had been due to give birth at any moment then, which was why she had left the poor soul behind, not wanting her to risk losing the baby out at sea where there were no midwives or the simple luxury of having a warm bed - that wasn't rocking back and forth against the churning sea.  
The only thing that separated the doppelganger from her mother, a woman that Winnie regarded as a sister, was a rare pair of eyes that she had only ever heard of once in her life. There was a friend of her father's once, someone she felt was irrelevant, who had been speaking about the rarity to her husband, referring to it as an "un-Christian defect" of some kind. But Mrs. Barnes was now privileged (she felt it was that way) to see this "defect" for herself and she couldn't for the life of her understand it was necessary for that passerby to refer to this rare gift from God in such a vile and discouraging way.  
One eye was a murky shade of dark brown. It was deep and warm and inviting but there was also an innocence there, a sincere and vulnerable kind of purity laying just beneath several layers of resolve.  
The other eye was a complete juxtaposition. Where her brown eye reminded Winifred of the warm and damp soil of the Earth she used to dig up with Lawrence, the household gardener from her younger days; the other one was as stormy and as cold as the sky half blanketed by clouds, pregnant with the God sent rain that ended many a drought. Right now in the dimly lit room it was a dark and brooding grey, almost foreboding - tempestuous. Mrs. Barnes _knew_ that in the sun her eye would be as bright and hopeful as the sea or sky. She knew, because her young son had the very same eyes - although James' were colder, more calculating and sharp. Scrutinising even.  
Finally the silence between the two women was broken by an unsure voice.  
"That's...not my- how..." There was trepidation in the way she tried to address her superior, only realising when it was too late, how she spoke out of turn once again. It was endearing to see that her mother had done her utmost to raise her daughter with respect, albeit misplaced at times, and the older woman couldn't help displaying her own motherly inclinations. She chuckled as she picked the sewing up from her lap and placed it aside, motioning for the girl to sit in the chair near the bed. After a moment of unnerving silence, with the Barnes' matriarch contemplating her words carefully, she spoke.  
"I knew your mother once. Many years ago - may seem like ancient history to you." She gave her an amused look before continuing. "Her father, your grandfather, was a man of many talents which is what caught my father's eye. He had a brilliant mind, skilled in carpentry and could play the meanest fiddle this side of town." Winnie almost sighed at the nostalgia. She really did have an altogether different kind of love for that old man, although she would've never said it out loud out of fear of just how unconventional it was. But in the continuous absence of her own father, she had looked up to him as a surrogate of sorts.  
"Daddy had said he'd bring only one person home, ended up bringin' two - includin' your mama." She watched as several minute emotions rolled over that pretty brown face, before settling on indifference. "We grew up together thick as thieves, your mama and I. There wasn't a single moment where we didn't spend the day chasin' after Mrs. Locklear's chickens or just sittin' by the river lettin' our young imaginations run wild like the cool water we'd dipped our feet in."  
She suddenly reached over and grabbed the young black girl's hand, patting it gently as if to reassure not just the bundle of nerves bubbling inside the newcomer sitting in front of her, but Winifred herself, because she knew that one way or another, their lives and relationship would be altered for as long as Mrs. Winifred Clara Barnes lived to see another sunrise across the French valley.  
"Your grandaddy didn't just fill our house with joyous music for all the years he was alive and workin' for us - he also gave me a best friend. And now - well now, after all these years havin' left your mama behind, not knowin' what happened to her and her baby - he's brought your wayward soul to me."  
She looked into the brown and blue orbs that were swimming in unshed tears, full of hope and an unbearable sadness that any mother would be willing to sacrifice herself for, if it meant raising a smile from all of that pain and sorrow. She reached up to wipe away the tear that had fallen from the stormy blue eye, the grey cloud having finally burst just like the Kansas rain that fell when the heavens opened. She stroked the wet cheek and hushed her, gently whispering, "you look every bit as beautiful as your mama, child. Bet you're just as headstrong too. She would wake up everyday workin' harder than the previous day, wantin' nothin' but a better life for herself. Talkin' 'bout how she didn't need any man, other than God, to be her saviour." Both women giggled, the young girl still sniffling as she held back tears.  
"That sounds like mama, alright. She told me to educate myself, know how to read and write just in case things turned and the world became a better place." The sadness returned to the young daughter's voice as she furrowed her eyebrows and looked down at the joined hands on the edge of the bed. "Guess she'd been wrong about that. All my life I've been with her, raised by her to believe in myself no matter what people said about my being a black girl - and all I ever wanted to do was make her proud of the daughter she raised." The tears started falling again, drip-dripping into her lap, forming small darkened dots in the fabric of her dress. Her voice was a cracked whisper as she said, "And now I don't know if I'll ever see her again."  
Winnie frowned. She always chastised her children, especially her daughter Rebecca, whenever they wallowed in self-pity, The same could be said for the tearful and wounded girl in front of her. "Now, I will not have any of that 'poor-me' talk in this house! Everyday you wake up and decide to live in your skin and as who you are is activism. It is the silent woman's protest against all unfairness cast upon on her - hold fast to those words, girl." She squeezed the brown hand that was clasped in her own ivory one. "Life is not a fairytale, and there aren't always happy endings. But a thousand times your mama would die and take hundreds with her, as long as she knew you could hold your own and remained steadfast in fightin' for what's right. That would make any mother proud. Understand?" The girl nodded, her curls bouncing lightly. Winnie smiled, then with one final squeeze of her hand, stood up to pull the youngster into a maternal hug.  
When the embrace was returned, with a little hesitation, it dawned on Winifred Clara Barnes that she had a chance to return the good deed that had been bestowed upon her when she was just a little girl growing up without the presence of a father.  
Even though the people in question were not present to appreciate the gesture, it was the least she could do to honour the little surrogate family that showed her the love she'd so desperately needed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we talk about the fact that Bucky is an orphan according to Marvel's wiki (-_-) I'm not here for it...they said her name was Winifred C. Barnes, hence the middle name Clara, I thought it was purrty *bats lashes*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an intense chapter. There will be some racist language but in a very minute dosage. I'm just letting y'all know so you don't get upset. Also wanted you to understand that for the purpose of this story and its setting, some of your Marvel faves will be extremely unfavourable/unsavoury...I apologise in advance and hope you will continue to read because things will get better =)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's another chapter for my favourite reader-chans!!!

It had been several days since your induction into the Barnes Manor, more importantly, it had been several days since Mrs. Barnes had told you of your mother that she had known growing up. You had been nothing short of thankful to the angels for blessing you with this turn of events. Where you had once felt lost and desolate, torn away from your mother with nothing but a gold locket as the last piece of her - you had found comfort and belonging in the form of Mrs. Winifred Barnes. Fabian was right when he said she would take a liking to you. You just never figured it would be under these circumstances.  
And they were certainly the most curious of circumstances. Where Mrs. Winnie (she had _insisted_ on you addressing her by her first name, but you felt you owed her some respect) had taken to completely accepting you with a warm smile and arms outstretched, you didn't feel as though her son shared her sentiment. Although in his defense, neither him nor you were even an ovum in either of your mother's wombs during the duration of their close friendship.  
You had once voiced this opinion - with as much respect as you could muster - to the older woman a few days after your first interaction with one another.

"Mrs. Winnie, I don't believe your son will take very kindly to me." You murmured, occupied with braiding her hair in two neat dutch braids, which you would then twist and pin this way and that into a low bun at the nape of her neck.  
She had appointed you to assist and take care of her, seeing as she was significantly aged but also fostering a long term injury in her hip, making it difficult to carry out tasks that required a large amount of movement or time in one position. Although you also felt she appointed you just to keep a watchful eye on you. In exchange she sought to ensure you had the best possible life at the manor.  
When you helped her bathe, she would allow you to take one of her fancy lavender bath salts. When you dressed her, she gave you one of her older dresses that no longer fit her. During these small moments of privacy, you would trade stories of your mother, with Mrs. Barnes giving you so much insight you sometimes couldn't believe you were talking about the same person. 

"Why do you say that dear child?" She asked, her voice laced with a hint of incredulous surprise. If it hadn't been for the busy fingers in her hair, she would have turned around and given you the same incredulous look. You sighed gently and proceeded to tell her of your first, rather unfortunate encounter with her son.   
"He's absolutely terrifying Mrs. Barnes! When he got upset with me for interrupting him while playing the piano, I thought my heart would leap straight from my chest!" You huffed in irritation as you placed another jewelled hair pin in the fluffy bun. James Barnes really was a brat in your opinion. Arrogant, obviously spoiled and self-entitled - but also _very_ handsome, which you found absolutely unfair.

Mrs. Barnes just chuckled in amusement at your frustration as you offered your arm to help her up from her chair. "Don't allow him to get under your skin...it's already cost me 2 other girls, and I can't afford to lose a third. Especially you." It was stated matter-of-factly as she looked at you in earnest, waiting for you to acknowledge her words and remember what she had told you the very first day you sat and cried on her shoulder. You eventually nodded and moved to hand her the walking cane that was laying on the table at which she had been seated.   
"Good. Come on now - let us head downstairs so that I can greet our house guests." You couldn't help but groan internally. The Barnes' were hosting a dinner party and the thought of you camouflage into the wall for long hours on your feet, occasionally serving the privileged and self-righteous, listening to their incoherent and unintelligent ramblings absolutely nothing, was already giving you a headache intense enough to share with two other people. If you were granted the chance, one of them would be that vile James Barnes.

***

You were now stationed in the large tea room where everyone was now gathered, having concluded dinner a while ago. George, the Barnes family patriarch, was making his way out into the cool French summer with his wife, Charles - whom you'd sat in the carriage with the very first day you arrived at the manor - and another couple. Rebecca Barnes Proctor, the eldest of the two children and married, was sipping gingerly from her teacup next to another woman with pale skin and red hair that fell just past her shoulders. Both were in _glamorous_ dresses you were sure cost more than the price of five of the best slaves anybody had to offer.  
Rounding off the patrons was James and his own little social group - that were standing a little distance away from you - consisting of a beautiful red head with pouty lips and an impassive expression on her face, twins that looked nothing like one another but were both charming, the male twin was with another woman who was honestly too plain and dull for his striking looks. 

Lastly, was a blonde haired, blue eyed man who was much taller than the Barnes boy but almost similar in build. Almost. Where James was a lot more stockier and solid, the man was lean and athletic, muscles stretching taut over his long limbs. His hair was neatly cropped and styled with the neatest and straightest side parting you had ever seen. He had an equally handsome face, with plump pink lips and bright blue eyes that were occasionally flitting back and forth between you and a stunning chocolate haired woman with red lipstick, looking you up and down with a slight furrow in his eyebrows.  
You were too busy ogling the male Maximoff and his date's ugly dress to notice the blonde and James huddling together, deep in conversation, glancing at you every now and then. It was only when James' red headed companion and the other twin neared the spot you were standing in, that you snapped out of your reverie, no doubt a faint look of contempt on your face because God that _dress_. Unfortunately the Fates were against you as your gaze and expression fell on the red head. 

Her face hardened and she stopped talking to the younger woman immediately, approaching you with a graceful swiftness that reminded you of a cat.   
"You know, _peasant_ , it's rather rude to stare at a noble woman. Even more so when you don't compliment her, but rather give her a dirty look." You swallowed slowly, wondering if she had seen your mental disapproval of the other woman's attire. "Well? Are you going to compliment me or will you just stand there looking every bit as miserable as that pathetic maids dress of yours? So dull and _lifeless_." Her tone was sharp and clipped, cutting into your brown skin with every word she spoke. You felt your face heating up in humiliation while you remained purse-lipped, fearful of tipping her past her level of tolerance.  
Now everyone in the younger Barnes' circle was watching the scene slowly unfolding, your eyes wide in fear while hers narrowed slightly as they raked over your being before coming back up to settle on your face. The right side of her lips twitched up as she tilted her head to the left.

It all happened so fast. The room was filled with a cacophony horrified gasps, a woman with a British accent shouting, " **Natasha**!!" A gruff male voice cursing under his breath and the tray you had been holding crashing to the ground in a clash of shattering glass and clanging silverware and copper. Everything seemed to go into complete chaos around you, as your vision blurred before you. Then like clockwork, your brain slowly began to comprehend everything as an intense burning pain spread across the nerves in your body. The sound that left your throat couldn't possibly have been your own. It was too high in pitch and rasped, as though it had been ripped out from its owner by a clawed hand and violently shoved back in just as quickly. The _pain_ , oh God the pain was so bad you couldn't even think straight, didn't even know which part of your body to touch first or where the most amount of searing pain was felt. Your eyes were stinging, your face felt like slow burning acid, your chest was on fire as though a thousand hot needles were submerged in your skin. _Everything hurt **so** bad!_ 

Slowly the events played themselves over in your pounding head. How Natasha had smirked at you slightly. When she casually walked over to you. Her grabbed the porcelain teapot filled with brewed tea, and subsequently and unexpectedly flinging the contents in your face, some of it landing on your chest. Somewhere in your out of body pain you heard Mrs. Barnes shocked confusion, no doubt hearing the commotion outside. That same clipped tone was now slightly raised as you heard it say, "let that be a lesson to you, ugly black, evil-eyed heathen! I hope your hideous skin burns off!" Then came what sounded like George Barnes booming orders to "escort Ms. Romanov to her carriage immediately!"   
The rest of the madness seemed to merge into a single fading muffle as you felt yourself give in to the darkness, teetering forward.   
The last thing you could recall before plunging into nothingness was Winifred's concerned voice calling your name and strong arms catching your paper flimsy body before it could hit the cold wooden floor, your blurry vision transitioning from being edged with black.  
The last image you saw was a pair of worried blue eyes looking down into your two-tone ones before finally succumbing to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOSH I HOPE YOU GUYS DON'T HATE ME!!! But again, I have no regrets. I know where I'm going with this and to keep it as "realistic" as possible, certain things need to happen. This particular chapter was inspired by a scene from 12 Years a Slave when Patsy gets hit in the face with what looked like a HUGE thick ass whiskey glass.  
> Seabass and Flowers updates will be on their way I PROMISE!!!   
> Again, comments and kudos would be greatly appreciated, sometimes they help to egg me on when I feel a little shitty and doubtful about my writing...if you don't leave comments or kudos Scarlett Johansson's makeup artist fucks up her contouring and Chadwick Boseman can't fit into his Black Panther costume...  
> Peace and bacon grease xx


	5. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a filler chapter my lovelies xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! I'm so sorry for taking long to put this up!! Goodness knows I've been sooooo busy dealing with exams...our uni is being super extra by having us write late AF so I'm stuck between holiday mode and having to be a student. There are two parts to this part of the story! This is just a filler to progress the story. Next chapter is going up soon  
> ENJOY!!!

The feeling of something roughly textured but cool and damp pressed against your stinging skin, rousing you from the depths of an empty darkness in which you'd spent an uncertain amount of time residing. You wanted to cry out because of the contrasting feel of cooling water on the cloth against your aching and sensitive-to-the-touch face, and if it hadn't been for the unpleasant tingling sensation coursing over you, you probably would have.

Your ears suddenly twitched, sensing the sound of muffled but hushed murmurs - one heavily accented and deep, the other light and airy and feminine - you slowly opened your eyes. You were greeted with a pair of sincere brown pools and a heartachingly beautiful face framed by chestnut brown hair, plump lips enhanced with rouge lipstick.  
"Dr. Lafayette." She called out in a British accent, turning slightly to address a middle-aged man dressed in a somewhat above average brown suit. The exchange between the now identified doctor and whom you assumed was Mrs. Barnes halted as they both made their way over to where you lay, Winifred following behind him at a distance.

He bent and hovered over you, getting rather uncomfortably in your face, examining you closely. Your eyes shifted to the British woman sitting by you and then to Winnie, discomfort and confusion clearly written all over. It didn't take a genius to know why you were there, you had the painful after effects of hot tea dredging and burning you as a reminder of the sociopathic woman who had been draped over James Barnes over the course of the evening. What did confuse you however, was the pair of blue eyes and arms that had caught and obviously brought you to your current location, surrounded by several of the guests who had been present when all hell broke loose. It couldn't have been James, could it?

You were pulled back to the present by that British accent gently calling your name, a delicate hand resting on your shoulder - besides Winifred Barnes, she was the most beautiful human you'd ever come across. She took your hand and helped you sit up, an apologetic look on her face when you hissed and winced in pain.

"How are you feeling?" She asked once you settled against the headboard. You didn't recognise the room you were in as that of Mrs. Barnes or her son, concluding that it must be one of the guest rooms. Attempting to bring moisture back into your throat, you swallowed twice, poised to answer her question - suddenly stopping with your lips slightly parted when your brown and blue eyes fell on the icy-stormy glare of one James Barnes. Suddenly everything felt cold while your skin heated up, and not from the incident with Natasha.

He was still in his expensive suit, save for his dinner jacket which had been discarded on a nearby chair. He still had that scrutinising furrow of his eyebrows although his jaw was relaxed. Hair still neatly tied back, a few stray strands tucked behind his ear. _Still_ as handsome as he was the first time you'd seen him, albeit under unsavoury circumstances. But something about the intensity of his gaze was unnerving. He finally looked away from you, allowing you to release a breath you didn't realise you were holding, when his tall, blonde companion approached him. They whispered back and forth amongst themselves conspiratorially and eventually moved to take their leave, James making a grab for his jacket and throwing it over his shoulder.

He stood casually against the wall while the blonde man opened the door for them to exit, impaling you with one last steely gaze before pushing off the solid structure and leaving the room. Nobody took notice of it, too concerned with easing your long forgotten discomfort, but there was something behind those blue eyes, it was neither anger nor distaste, but it made your brown skin crawl in an oddly pleasant manner.

***

The morning air was crisp and had a slight bite to it despite the stalls and carriages crowding the wide expanse of space that was the marketplace. You inhaled deeply through your nose, the cold air assaulting your nostrils and causing your sinuses to sting, trying and failing to suppress a sneeze.

Fabian merely laughed at you as you both weaved your way through an assortment of smells and displays scattered every which way, headed towards the alley that cut through the old, tall city buildings taking you on a short walk back to the Barnes Manor. Well, the walk would have been short had you not been leisurely strolling alongside the old man seizing the opportunity to be out and away from that overwhelming house and it's repetitive routine. And away from James Barnes.

"I see you are deep in thought, _mon cher_. A penny for your thoughts? Or rather - " he dug into his pocket and pulled out a perfectly round and ripe plum, handing the deep purple, plump fruit in your direction before pulling one for himself from his other pocket and biting into its tarty flesh. You puckered at the burst of sweet-sourness hitting your tongue and palate, swallowing after letting out a light cough. Eventually, after gathering yourself you answered.

"I'm not thinking about anything Fabian." You're not sure if it was the tone in your voice or the way you absent-mindedly started rubbing your fingers on the faint, silvery scar stretching along the peak of your cheekbone and up to the corner of your brown eye, - either way old Fabian knew where your thoughts were dwelling.

"Natasha Romanov has always been a very unpleasant person. A terrifyingly mysterious woman - nobody is entirely certain as to who she truly is, or what she does." He stepped closer to you along the dusty road, making way for a young couple passing through. His voice dropped several octaves as he spoke loud enough only for you to hear him.  
"Miss Romanov is of Russian descent, born into a family where the men have all served as politicians or soldiers of wars long forgotten, and the women were nurses, maids and housekeepers.

But rumours circulating amongst the rich is that below their professional exterior, the Romanov's have made their decades long wealth through their ability to _moonlight as assassins_." You gasped and looked up at the old man, eyes as wide as teacup saucers. Natasha Romanov - the woman that James was courting - a possible assassin? Well, considering the events that took place two weeks ago, you wouldn't put anything past her.

"She's a spoiled, arrogant and vile young woman, how Madame Barnes manages to shield her disdain for her is a miracle in itself." That gave you a reason to literally pause. You turned to Fabian and leaned into him, curiosity and conspiration written all over your face.  
Winifred Barnes disliked her own son's courting companion?! Besides the whole secret assassin business, Natasha was still beautiful. The red hair against her creamy skin added an unconventional touch to her overall look. Any man would be a fool not to find her attractive, and as far as you could tell, James Barnes was no fool.

Fabian was about to further elaborate on this new revelation when you both heard his name called out from a distance, somewhere back in the chaos of the marketplace. It wasn't long before an older man with dark brown hair and a most peculiar contraption in his hand - a slightly rusted type of helmet or mask made from copper - emerged from the crowd, sauntering up to the both of you at a surprising speed.

"Ah Mr. Stark! Pleasure seeing you out and about. Miss Potts was deeply troubled with the vast amount of time you were spending holed up in your 'laboratory.'" Fabian had an amused look on his face as he addressed the stranger, it was as if they'd known one another for a long time the way they seemed to sync so easily. After a brief exchange of snarky banter, Fabian proceeded to introduce you to the man, his brown eyes and full attention falling on you.

"Well, aren't you the sweetest thing I've seen all morning?" He flashed you a devilishly charming grin introducing himself as Tony Stark before he grabbed your hand and raised it to his lips. You were completely dumbfounded, your eyes widened in surprise as you tried desperately to avoid the urge to flail your hands in a panicked frenzy. It was by God's grace that nobody frequented this route - what would people say if they saw a well-off white man making niceties with a common house servant?

Mr. Stark lowered your brown hand to your side, when a tall woman dressed in all white called out for him. Tony turned to look in the general direction of the female's voice and then turned back to you and your old friend.

"Uh, now I remember why stopped you Fabian." He looked back at you for a short moment, as though he was sizing you up, before looking back at Fabian and continuing. "Pepper requires some assistance with uh - new undergarments and dresses she wishes to acquire, and I would appreciate it if you could lend me your pretty-eyed companion for a while. I will send someone to notify Mrs. Barnes and make sure she returns no later than midday." He looked at you again with a look of expectation on his face. The question clearly written on his small grin - he awaited your response. You shifted nervously from one foot to the other, giving Fabian a nervous side-glance.

"I'm sure Madame wouldn't mind and besides," he put a reassuring hand on your shoulder and took the somewhat heavy basket from your grip. "I'm sure Miss Potts would be happy to see you are fully recovered. Go on _cher_ , Rose and I will hold the fort."

With a nervous smile, you thanked your old friend and then turned to Tony Stark, who was already halfway down the alley headed back to the market, barely saunter-skipping towards Pepper.

The day had barely begun and things were about to get interesting. You just didn't know _how much_.


	6. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from part 1!!
> 
> A wild Sam Wilson appears...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part 2 my dearies!! This chapter is exciting for me cause we're starting to see the cogs turning and the story is taking shape. Characters are entering or changing...ok I'll shut up now.   
> Enjoy dudes!!

It had been an eventful and adventurous experience spending the day with Mr. Stark and his beloved Pepper. They were such an endearing couple - Tony picking a flower and placing it behind her ear, while she blushed and giggled furiously. They were also very welcoming, although Tony was a bit of an obnoxious and strangely eccentric man. He was very - unconventional and unorthodox, a complete contradiction to all the norms of French society. But oddly enough, Pepper seemed to ground him, they were that complementary and perfect for each other.

After helping her select several elegant dresses and jewels - some of the garments sent off for alterations to accommodate her height - and helping her carry them into her elegant dressing room, she walked you to the front door of their modest home.

"I hope you understand just how grateful I am for your assistance, dear." She looked at you with so much earnest and gratitude, you almost smiled in embarrassment. "I'm also very glad to see you're doing much better and not badly marred from the incident with that foul woman." Her face took on a bit of a serious frown and her tone turned sour, but only slightly. She looked into your eyes and for the second time, you received a genuine and beautiful smile from someone other than your employer.

"I'll be sure to repay you handsomely for your efforts. Do send Winifred my greetings." After you nodded determinedly with a, "I will Miss Potts," the tall, lean woman surprised you with a warm embrace and bid you farewell. "Take care of yourself, my dear." She added, when she let you go. You smiled sweetly, bid her adieu and turned on your heel, heading into the warm sun that beat down on the people and houses. You hadn't even made it three-quarters of the way towards the Barnes Manor, when you suddenly heard someone whistle from behind, followed by a resounding, "excuse me Miss!!" You turned around with an incredulous look on your face as you scoped the bustling street for the disgusting heckler, looking to give him a good piece of your mind.

But when he eventually emerged from the crowded street and came closer, his bright, smiling features coming into full view, you suddenly forgot how to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. Your two tone eyes widened in amazement as you inhaled sharply through your nose because, _my God_ , he was _unbelievably_ handsome!! His hair was faded at the sides, whilst black, tightly kinked hair that was meticulously shaped and pat down neatly sat at the top. He had a warm, friendly smile...the kind of smile that made you feel like you'd known him all your life - and the gap in his teeth seemed to only contribute to his attractive features.

His beautiful mahogany skin reminded you of expensive chocolate, the kind you'd seen in the window of the little confectionery shop you'd passed making your way back from the market with Fabian and for a devious moment you wondered if he tasted just as sweet. He finally caught up with you, his large chest and shoulders heaving as he propped his palms on his thighs, catching his breath.

Finally he straightened up, the open-mouth smile on his face even bigger as the corners of his eyes crinkled. You felt your heart flutter and you inhaled nervously through slightly parted lips. You'd never been addressed by men before, let alone _attractive_ men, mostly because your mother shielded you so much that you weren't very social by default - the other reason being that they were more than often white.

"I'm sorry...Miss..." he was huffing each word as he tried to get his breathing in a steady, rhythmic flow. "I'm...sorry. One second." His eyes averted to the sky and with his hands on his hips, took in three deep breaths and finally looked back at you again, the same gapped and charming smile lighting up his face. "I couldn't help but notice you leaving Mr. Stark's residence, has Miss Potts finally decided to consider hired help?" Now that was a surprise!

"Uhm, no. I was running errands in the market and happened upon her and Mr. Stark on my way back." You replied curtly with a shy smile on your face. You could feel the heat slowly rising up your neck and creeping into your cheeks. You soldiered on. "She required assistance with something - I'm now returning to the Barnes Manor so I can begin with my duties."

"Ah, I see. Well," he gently placed his hand on your arm and turned your body in the direction of the route you were taking earlier. You hesitated, looking up at him with your contrasting eyes that were laced with confusion and incredulity. "You don't expect me to let you walk alone! These particular streets are not safe for a beautiful woman such as yourself."

Your eyes widened slightly. He couldn't _possibly_ be serious! This man, this handsome, charismatic man who was all large muscle and chocolate skin and gap-toothed smile and warm lovely orbs of brown, thought you beautiful? _And_ wanted to accompany _you_? You couldn't help the smile that slowly spread across your face, causing the thin scar that slightly marred you to wrinkle and fold. Taking that as approval, the brown stranger offered his arm out and you took it, looping your one arm through his as the other hand rested lightly at your side carrying a small basket.

After a few moments of silence walking arm in arm like a love-struck couple, the mansion coming into view as you both started along its lengthy driveway, you spoke up.

"You know this wasn't necessary Mr -.."

"Wilson. Sam Wilson. But please, call me Sam." You beamed up at him and both the bridge of your nose and scar wrinkled again, you graciously gave him your name and he repeated it - it sounded right on his lips and tongue and you couldn't help the quickening of your breath. You continued on for a while until you were about a few meters from the main entrance of homestead in which you resided, a little ways off to the side.

As you were saying your goodbyes, Sam said something that caused you to burst into rambunctious laughter and he took that as his opportunity. He lifted his large, dark hand up to your face, cupping it as he lightly rubbed the scar under your eye. Immediately you stopped laughing as you looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. He was looking back at you with an intensity you couldn't quite describe and he had a fond smile. The feeling of his callused thumb tracing your scar caused your breath to hitch and your heartbeat thump-thump-thumped quickly in your chest, so hard it hurt.

"Thank you for allowing me to escort you home. It was a pleasure meeting you and a man could only dream to see you again - soon." With that, he leaned in and kissed you exactly under your eye where your scar started. It sent bolts of electricity down your spine and you were sure you only started breathing again after you'd watched him step back from your vicinity to head in the direction from whence he came. Your fingers came to a delicate rest on the peak of your cheekbone, as you watched him disappear around the corner without even glancing back at you once - you could still feel it tingling.

As you dropped your hand with a sigh and started towards the large oak doors, you failed to notice the white lacy window dressing flutter airily. A dark, looming figure that had watched the exchange between you and Sam closely from one of the windows on the upper floor, stepped away from the large glass. They attempted to resume with their previous activities before they had caught sight of you walking down the cobbled driveway with a dark skinned man. The two of you seemed - close. Too close. They wondered if you somehow knew the man from before you started working at the mansion.

All concentration was now gone and they clenched their jaw in frustration, nasally breathing out hot and heavy air causing their nose to flare, as the image of you laughing in delight replayed in their mind. But what really seemed to trouble them, was the look on your face as the black man suddenly caressed your cheek tenderly and looked into your sea-storm and earthy eyes deeply. He had a look of something behind his gaze, and thinking about the way those eyes of yours looked back at the stranger made their jaw tick again.

They heard you from behind the closed door humming in content as you waltzed down the passage outside, dainty feet tapping against the hard wood floor. Eyebrows furrowed minutely and a frown twitched on their lips as a bubbling giggle escaped your lips, timing it perfectly just as you passed in front of their door.

The foreign but beautiful sound caused piercing, wolf-like eyes to narrow dangerously.

You knocked on another door and shut it behind you upon entering - _just_ missing the sound of glass to concrete, a violent, shrill shattering echoing in the distance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo!! Soooo what did you thiiink *bats lashes*   
> Who do you guys think was the looming figure with a bad temper? (The answer is obvious though isn't it)  
> What would you guys like to see next?  
> Come ooooooon lol leave your comments peeps, I'd love to know what you think =)   
> Your kudos would be much appreciated too!
> 
> If you don't leave kudos or comments Sebastian Stan gets split ends...and those AREN'T cute!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Barnes is on the fritz...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darlings!!! I have a surprise for you all...two new chapters!! Yay!! So sit back and enjoy, I'm really excited for these!  
> Note: Dialogue marked with asterisk is Russian =)   
> Warning: Excessive use of a pet name unbeknownst to reader-chan lol

For 4 consecutive days, you had the misfortune of bumping into James Barnes, resulting in a series of uncomfortable situations or being on the receiving end of relentless bullying and teasing. You hadn't done anything wrong besides literally existing, and for some unknown reason it was bringing out the true colours of your employer's son. And he was a right terror.

Mrs. Barnes had granted you permission to read the books in the library and so you spent many days in their, immersed in history and the arts, sometimes language, preferably Latin and French. In the middle of reading you'd hear heavy footsteps, recognising them as those of James. In the hopes of avoiding confrontation, you'd dip your head a little more as if to seem deeply concentrated on the material you were reading, only for him to flip one side of the book over causing it to shut and losing your place. Sometimes he'd simply sidle up to you and slip it from your grasp, read the cover, glance at you and then walk off with it, chuckling under his breath.

There was a time when you were reciting an English poem to yourself whilst cleaning the large hallway floor on your hands and knees. The piece reminded you so much of your mother and home on a bright summers day, and how she would gather your hair up into a big, curly mess on your head while you hummed a nonsensical tune. You were about one-third of the way into completion and repeating the poem again, turning around to dip your mop into the bucket of water you'd placed behind you. Except it wasn't there. You cursed under your breath and looked around for it, your bare feet padding on the cool tiles as you looked under the grand piano.

*" _You've been reading one of my poetry books, ptichka._ "

You whirled around so violently, your feet got tangled up and you plopped down onto the cold floor. How had you not heard him creep up behind you? Your heart was thundering in your chest so hard it caused you to feel a dull pain in your ribcage. Whilst you were still catching your breath, you heard a low, dark chuckle from the young man towering over you. He seemed to find a great deal of humour in your suffering, and you would've been lying if you didn't find it frustrating.

*" _You do not seem to talk much, except when you recite poems from my books. Why is that, ptichka?_ " He wasn't speaking French, it was a completely strange and bizarre language and you had absolutely no inkling of what he was saying. " _Are you looking for this?_ "  You looked up and saw him holding the bucket you had been searching for. You were holding back the urge to call him out, choosing to look at him with a schooled facial expression until there was a tick in his jaw and a sudden impatience took over him. 

*" _Are you deaf or do you deliberately choose to ignore me?_ " You blinked. " _Answer me!_ " He bellowed and you flinched. He was having another one of his episodes and once again you were on the receiving end. " _You're just as worthless and as useless as all the other girls. Except no man would ever look at you twice. It seems you've missed a spot._ " 

He said casually and before you knew it, he raised the bucket up with his other hand and tipped some of the water over the brim - and on to you. You sat on the floor in stunned silence, watching as the slightly dirty water dripped down you brown skin and drenched hair, your dress clinging to your body as the water began pooling around you on the floor you had been busy cleaning.

You clenched your jaw hard as hot tears prickled from behind your shut eyelids. You were doing everything in your power to maintain composure. _Don't lose your temperament. Count to 10. Breathe, Don't do something you are going to regret. Don't cry, don't cry - DO NOT. CRY._

*" _You're not going to cry are you? Your resolve is admirable, although you do look almost as pitiful as the night you were drenched in hot tea._ " Then he placed the bucket down next to you and turned on his heel walking towards the great front doors. Suddenly he stopped mid-step and threw a sideways glance at you over his shoulder.

*" _I will not relent until I have broken you, ptichka._ " And with that he left.

That was two days ago and it was the first time he had addressed you since the incident with Natasha, that had led to the beautiful red haired woman being banished from visiting the Barnes Manor for an indefinite amount of time. Perhaps that would explain why he was making your life unbearable.

The most recent incident occured when Mrs. Barnes had asked you to fix a ripped sleeve on one of his shirts - because his arms were too big. James size in comparison to most French men was no surprise to everybody that knew him Even those who were the same height or marginally taller than him, like his best friend Steve, paled in comparison because he was so much more stockier and imposing. He had a stoic, cold and intimidating air about him that not even Natasha could break and he genuinely looked two seconds away from snapping anybody's neck if they so much as looked at him wrong.

So there you were, sitting in the drawing room with a needle and thread in your thumb and index finger, stitching up the fabric carefully with your different coloured eyes slightly narrowed and the corner of your lip caught between your teeth. You were so concentrated on the task at hand, you didn't even notice when his heavy footsteps came walking in the direction of the room in which you were situated which were silenced by the plush carpet once he crossed the threshold.

He was staring at you intently, as though measuring you up, calculating the perfect predatory approach that would render you unaware but imobilised once he attacked - although he had no plans on doing so. He merely wanted his shirt back. He continued to watch you in curiosity. The way you licked your lips as you sheathed the needle through the crisp cotton textile; the way a stray curl tumbled forward and hung above your creased brow and how your brown and blue eyes followed the thread in your hand as you pulled it taut and closed the tear with every stitch - he just couldn't understand why he found you so intriguing.

*" _Ptichka_." 

You released a tight, high pitched yelp and were certain you had died momentarily because of the way you jumped out of your skin with such a fright, accidentally jabbing the needle into one of your fingers holding the shirt up to your face. The hotheaded side of you spun your entire body in the direction of the offender and you snapped your head up with a substantial amount of vitriol in your steel and earth eyes, face laced with irritation. When you saw a pair of the same steel coloured eyes look back at you with what looked like mild amusement, saw the twitch in the corner of his wide and full lips, you chose to bite your tongue instead raising your injured finger to your lips and took deep breaths allowing your mind and lungs to regulate. 

Then it hit you. You had almost scolded James Barnes. You looked back at him with wide eyes before lowering them to the ground in shame and fear. The last time you were in the same room you wound up sopping with dirty brown water down to your undergarments. You pulled the tip of your finger from your mouth with a moist smack and cleared your throat nervously.

"Monsieur Barnes, my apologies! You gave me a terrible fright. I was not aware that you were in the room..." you were beginning to ramble, but he interrupted you mid-sentence.

*" _Spare me your irrelevant excuses, they are unnecessary._ " He was speaking in that very foreign and very strange language again. Why on earth was he being so difficult? 

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur?"

"My shirt." You didn't have time to think about how he'd just addressed you in English because of the clipped and sharp tone. You sprung into action, snapping the thread with your teeth and handing the good-as-new shirt back to its owner, eyes downcast. He stood there in front of your seated frame analysing your work, which was undeniably satisfactory, before lowering it clutched in his hand.

Without warning, he lifted his other hand and twirled the clumped stubborn coil that had been bothering you around his large, pale index finger. Your breath caught and your eyes darted around nervously at the sudden change in behaviour. Part of you wanted him to stop and just leave, another part wanted him to brush the hair from your face and run his hand over your coarse hair - just so you could feel how warm his palm was.

He took a step closer. He was now directly above you, intense eyes gazing at you, a reminder of the winter. In fact, he reminded you of winter. He was the fresh white snow that smouldered the camp fire and the same grey smoke arising from the dead inferno against a grey-blue cloudy sky could be seen in the irises of his eyes. A cold finger ran from the hinge of your jaw to the tip of your chin and tilted your head up further.

*" _Perhaps I was wrong about you. I can see in your eyes that you're not like the others. You're different from everyone; mother, my sister, friends, me...even the man who touched your face and kissed your cheek._ " Although you didn't understand what he was saying, you saw a temporary shift in his demeanour towards the end of his sentence. His eyes held malice and his face hardened. *" _You deserve to fly alone, ptichka._ "

His eyes lingered on your confused eyes a moment longer before he pulled his hand away from you and turned to make his leave. Once his echoed footsteps became more faint and you were certain he was gone, you released the air from your lungs. Suddenly you felt tired, it was as if his presence alone required all your attention and energy. 

While you were gathering the spool and slipped the thin needle underneath the thread, your mind went back to the way his finger ghosted your jaw and he looked at you the exact same way he'd done so the very first time you'd encountered him. Except this time he was a lot less intimidating and his tone was almost calming.

What was most curious was the word he kept repeating whenever he spoke to you. 

 _Ptichka._  

The way he said it, it was almost as if it held some kind of sentiment. Like it was personally meant for you.

 _Ptichka_. What ever did that mean?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh!!! James is starting to show another side of him!!! *wags eyebrow*  
> Ptichka: Russian for little bird  
> I dunno I just felt it was fitting for the type of character I'm building for Buck Buck   
> Don't forget to kudos and comment xx


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interesting turn of events here...a very very interesting turn of events *smiles sweetly*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter. You guys already know I got your back!!
> 
> Again: Dialogue marked with asterisks = Russian...Bucky is rude like that lol  
> Enjoy my babes!!

You sat at the dressing table in Mrs. Barnes' bedroom as she rummaged through her jewellery box searching for her earrings. Today was a particularly special day for her as it was the anniversary of her and her husband's marriage to one another. They were going away for three days to Versaille courtesy of one of Mr. Barnes highly ranked German associates and close friend, an oddly named man Winifred referred to as Zola.

"Now my dear, we will be expecting a very large delivery of over four dozen pots of flowers to be planted over the next two days. 

Two dozen will be assigned for you to plant in the east wing, right under the large tree in the corner. I don't want you getting terribly burnt by the sun nor do I want you to be overworked." She laughed gently and turned to you, whose mind was far away, deep in thought. She caught your attention after calling your name twice.

"Your mind is wandering. Is something the matter?" You looked at her thoughtfully questioning the implications of telling her what had transpired between you and her son. Deciding not to risk it, you took another route.

"I've met a boy. Well he's not so much a boy as he is a man. A very charming man, I might add." The older woman smiled at you fondly and made her way over to where you were seated, twirling your thumbs and drawing random patterns into the table.

"And what is this man's name?" She asked in amusement.

"Sam Wilson." 

Had your eyes not been fixated on the table, you would have seen Winnie's jaw fall slightly as her emerald eyes widened in surprise. 

"I see. Well," she said with a sudden finality, ending the conversation as she stood up to walk towards the bedroom door. "I'm sure you'll be happy no matter who you choose to be with." That caused you to look up in suspicious confusion by the sudden change in the matriarch, who not so long ago seemed intrigued by your troubles. What did she mean "who ever you choose to be with"? What did she know that you didn't?

"I must go with haste my dear. George has probably worried himself sick pacing up and down in waiting. Do be sure to have finish your task by the time I get back, yes? Take care."

She left you sitting there in solitude and confusion. When you finally made to get up and leave the room, you heard the horses hooves pounding away into the distance as the carriage took the Barnes' of to their destination far away.

***

It was around mid-morning and the bright spring sun burned a golden white flare as it journied up and over the East, hanging high overhead. Thinking you'd be able to finish your portion of the gardening by midday, you arose early to begin transplanting the flowers that had been ordered by Mrs. Barnes. In fact you woke up just in time to catch the delivery men loitering around the yard looking somewhat suspicious. They claimed to be lost, even though it was obvious to everyone that the large double doors in the front were the main entrance. Despite your reservations you assisted and now here you were, kneeling and bent over as you patted the dark soil around another partially buried flower.

You couldn't help but admire Mrs. Barnes' impecable taste. She knew which colours complemented the motif of the large mansion but also that of the season. There was a variety of pale but bright yellows, pinks and pastel blues; deep reds and violets coupled together and finally a whole crate of large white flowers which would stand alone in a sea of green shrubery and leaves. The smell of the moist soil mixed with the fragrance of the blooming and beautiful garden made you feel hazily content and whimsical. 

As you continued to soldier on, moving on to the purple and red flora, you began to hum slowly. It was a song your mother used to sing when she made large pitchers of icy lemonade for the master back at home and it seemed fitting that you should remember it in this moment.

\---

Bucky leaned against the large marble pillar, large hands in his pockets as he stared out into the extravagance that was their garden. Honestly speaking, he didn't care too much for the asthetics, he only came out there when he needed to clear his mind, recite poetry and plays or was scheduled for sparring with Steve in the large, open space. Today he was out there for the latter.

He'd just pushed off of the structure to make his way deeper into the garden as he awaited his best friend and their instructor, walking over to the makeshift dummy carved from wood and fortified with a series of nails, when he heard a faint yet unidentifiable female voice. Singing? No, she was humming. Bucky had never been in the presence of one of the staff workers tending to the garden and for all the intense training and skills he'd acquired over the years, his ears couldn't recognise this voice. He also didn't know where she was.

"I never would have penned you to be the type for gardens and sentiment. You surprise me Barnes." Bucky didn't even flinch at the sudden intrusion of his instructor and mentor, sharpshooters and soldiers didn't have time to wallow in fear, they had to steel themselves - always expecting the worst. To him, that was an invaluable skill he adopted during his deployment in Russia.

He turned around just as Steve's tall and muscular stature entered.

"I don't see how clearing one's mind before serving a good beating is regarded as...sentimental, Fury. But I suppose we have our differences - what with you being from another era." Bucky smirked smugly at the black man with an eyepatch. To him, Nicholas J. Fury was pivotal in both his and Steve's lives. He was a war veteran, who retired whilst he was still at his peak and in his prime, having suffered from and miraculously surviving a gunshot to the eye. He was a cynical, no-nonsense man who had a one of the quickest tongues, always ready with a witty and cutting response for anyone who tried to challenge him.

He was also an obscure father figure. Having trained Steve and Bucky when they were just 15, long before their deployment to Italy and Russia respectively. Both men had in fact been deployed together in Italy but after Bucky and his team was temporarily captured - and brutally tortured - by the Germans, Bucky transferred to a faction in Russia where he once again met his older soon-to-be mentor. By the time he reached 21, he had become one of 5 of the most skilled and adept snipers in his base, an asset to their cause, rumoured to have more than two dozen high profile kills under his belt. He was sometimes referred to as The Winter Soldier because he was clinical, quiet and cold just like the harsh Soviet weather.

"Ah so you do have a personality, James." He said with a very rare yet very small chuckle. "You hear that Rogers? Your friend foresees an ass-whopping in your future."

"I'll let my fists do the talking, sir." The lean and athletic blonde took a fighting stance. Bucky flashed him a cocky smirk and as always being the most gutsy of the two, took the first swing.

Steve blocked and countered with a punch to the ribs, but Bucky barely felt it as his larger frame absorbed the shock of the impact. Game on.

The two men went back and forth punching and counter punching, kicking and counter kicking, sometimes countering against the counter and pinning each other to the ground. They both had admirable strengths but Steve had a weakness - he always had a weakness.

Where the blonde's sheer height gave him a better reach to connect with Bucky's face, Bucky had quick reaction and reflexes and always devised a way to get out of a deadlocked situation. Where Bucky's punches were a lot stronger and stunned Steve whenever he socked him in the head, Steve was resilient and would fight back tenfold, using Bucky's sometimes mechanical thinking to pull out a trick or two in retaliation. But ultimately, Bucky was nifty and creative in his combat. He could make his entire surroundings into a weapon, an object for leveraging a different approach, and every time he would catch Steve off guard.

Fury would just stand their and correct the two men.

_Hit harder. Time your defenses. Steve, use Bucky's size against him. Hit low and double up with a hit to his jaw. That's it son!_

_Bucky! Pay attention!!_

He doesn't know how it happened, usually he's so focused. It was one of the things he was more experienced in, slipping from James Barnes to The Winter Soldier - it came as easy as flipping a light switch. He knows that his lapse in concentration, however, was exploited by his best friend because of the swift uppercut to his jaw. But that was the least of his worries. He had found the source of the feminine voice from earlier on. 

Tucked into the east corner of the garden, leaning over a ridiculously unnecessary quarry of flowers, probably his mother's doing. She was busy planting each one into the earth, turning her graceful neck to extract another delicate plant from the pot. Her brown hands were dirty from digging and patting at the soil and when she turned her head again he caught the profile of her sweat-sheened face. She was smiling.

While he steadied his head, a dull throbbing sensation assaulting him underneath his skull. He watched her sit back on her thighs under the billowing skirt of her canary yellow dress and lift her glowing arms to the heavens with an appreciative sighing moan as her joints popped and righted themselves in her spine. He could see the gentle flexing in her shoulder blades as the toned muscles dented them, making her look like she had odd wings. 

Bucky tried to shake himself back to the task at hand. He couldn't - wouldn't allow some silly black peasant girl to distract him. He would never be able to live down Fury's disapproval. Alas, he made the mistake of glancing over at her as he delivered a swinging punch to the side of his friend's head. He had already envisioned how he would end the sparring session between them once and for all, with him being the victor, but his wandering eye would cost him dearly.

She was now standing to her full height, there were two brown smudges in her skirt from where she'd distributed all her weight as she placed the flowers into the brown soil. She clutched a moderately sized crate in her dirty hands to her stomach and she was still humming. As she headed off towards the alternate entrance that would take her back into the house, she begun swaying her hips gently, the large floor-length bottom half of her dress swinging off rhythm with her movements. 

When she gave a cliche twirl and giggled chirpily as she almost lost her balance, Bucky felt a knot twisting in his stomach. It was so intense it made him feel a little out of breath, but before he could think any further - he was grunting as his back smacked into the soft grass and the wind left his lungs. Steve had pinned him. Hard. And there was a look of suspicious curiosity in his bright blue eyes as he straightened up and offered a hand to his friend.

"Hmm, I think we've had enough for today. Steve, my praise goes to you for capitalising on James'...hesitation." He gave Bucky an accusatory glare and the young man hid his blush my clenching his jaw and looking down. "You're dismissed Rogers. See that you get some well deserved rest."

 

Steve threw his best friend and war compatriot one last look, his eyebrows knit in confusion and his eyes narrowed, and then swaggered off to get himself together before leaving the Manor. There was a heavy and awkward silence as Fury looked off into the horizon, arms neatly tucked behind his back.

"You know, back in the times of war, five seconds was all the enemy needed to shoot you dead." He then looked at Bucky whose head was still down. "But this isn't the war anymore, so I can't chide you too much. But to think that a pretty servant girl holds _that much_ power over you..." Bucky raised his cobalt eyes up to his mentor and second father in astonishment and slight humiliation, but didn't say anything.

"Don't be fooled son. I may be old and I may be blind in one eye - but can still see everything." And with a pat on James' broad shoulder, Nicholas J. Fury walked off taking the same route as Steve.

Bucky stood in the middle of the garden, fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to quell his anger and the new, foreign feeling in his gut.

He listened as the little birds in the trees chirped away cheerfully as though there wasn't a single care in the world. They reminded him of the girl brown girl with the captivating eyes and the chittering giggle - as carefree and curious as a little bird. 

And he wanted to catch her.

***

You were standing on the tips of your toes, doing your utmost best to reach the higher shelf as you swatted and jumped for a book in the furthest corner of the library. It was twilight and the mansion was silent as everyone began retiring to their respective place in the large homestead. Mr. and Mrs. Barnes' absence meant there was less work around the house, and honestly, nobody was complaining.

You _almost_ had it, practically straining and hurting your muscles up one side of your body, when a large hand violently tugged at your raised hand while another grabbed your waist and shoved your back into the wall - effectively pinning you. The manhandling was so swift and unexpected, you barely had any time to react vocally - only grunting when your spine made contact with the bricks.

Your scared earth and water eyes looked up into the familiar dark and brooding chrome-blue ones that always seemed void of any emotion, and suddenly your warm skin was on fire, chills spreading over you from the two searing points of contact on your wrist and waist.

James Barnes' large, manly frame stepped closer until there was a small space in between your bodies, heat bouncing off between the two of you, and your eyes scanned down his striking face and landed on his downturned wide lips almost willing him to kiss you.

He bowed his neck and leaned in to your face, his eyebrows furrowed in some kind of frustration, his blues locked on your two-tone orbs that were trained on his mouth. And then he stopped, _he stopped_ , lips barely a hair away from connecting. You wanted to whine in agony but instead took a deep breath in and smited yourself as your head swam and you became drunk off of his scent. Man, musk, mint and wine.

_*"You fly dangerously close, ptichka. A predator can only handle so much temptation before he gives in to his appetite - and mine is insatiable."_

This time his foreign words were dripping with seduction. You could almost  feel him restraining from caving in to the urge to do what his body wanted, for which you considered both a blessing and a curse.

 _Please, PLEASE for the love of all that is holy and sinful, please press your lips to mine._  

You wanted to say it, but your throat had fisted itself into silence and all you could do was part your lips and sigh, your shaky breath brushing the perfect pink softness of his lips. It caused his chest to rise against yours and fall as he released his own, lust filled exhale.

*" _You tested my patience today, and I was so close to tearing you limb from limb. Tread carefully, kolibri. Because if you so much as flap your pretty little wings around me...I will pluck each and every last feathery nerve in your body and eat you alive. I'll torture you, naked and quivering and begging me to stop,_ " his hot left hand on your waist slowly moved up your body, ghosting over your clothed chest and wrapped firmly around your neck. Your heartbeat quickened and your breathing hastened into short puffs of air. " _And then I'll caress you gently and have my name spilling from your full lips, every breath a broken Hail Mary._ "

And then, he was no longer cornering you. You felt invigorated as the rush of cold air and oxygen fill your lungs and surrounded your overheating body. You were literally gasping in deep gulping breaths and your hand reached up to clutch you neck thankful for the release but also missing the uncomfortable weight of his hand. You swallowed thickly. Steady now.

"Heed my warning. It is the last one I will deliver to you." Although it was said casually, as though nothing had ever happened, you could hear the hint of the dark threat in his tone. He walked backwards with his predatory, no longer blue eyes boring into you and a ghostly smirk twitching the one corner of his mouth.

The last thing to echo off the walls and in your head, as you watched him begin to slink into the shadows of the library hallway was...

*" _Sweet dreams - my ptichka_." And then he disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooooo!! This chapter literally took the ever living soul out of me!! I must say I'm actually really proud of this chapter. My brain worked overtime to try figure out how to integrate the canon of Captain America, although this fic is NOT canon!  
> Tried to compensate as best as I could for my inability to write combat...anyway...what ya think girls?  
> The pet name is there for very obvious reasons (which will be revealed later on if you can't figure it out =P)  
> I hope I'm building the slow burn up steadily, let me know y'all!  
> P.S. Ptichka means little bird; kolibri means hummingbird =3
> 
> Don't forget to comment and kudos...if you don't Brock Rumlow robs a pet store and takes candy from babies  
> Peace and Bacon Grease xx


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader gains a little insight into the reason for Bucky's broody and moody personality...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hobbles into the internet in crutches*   
> What's up gang!! I'm baaaack, and injured, but back nonetheless! Happy New Year y'all!
> 
> Sorry for keeping you all waiting. I'm dealing with a deferred exam coming up next Wednesday (and then I graduate!!!!). And I also tore my VMO muscle so I'm on crutches and in pain lol. Enough about me though, let's get to the good stuff!!
> 
> Enjoy xx

You were seated on the kitchen counter - very inappropriate - Baptiste's weight leaning casually in between your legs, as your fingers worked quickly on her crown of tight, fisted coils, weaving them into six neat rows on her head. Rose was posted near the firewood stove, an assortment of pots, pans and bowls lining the slab of pristine marble, all carrying delicious foods waiting to be served at brunch. The Maximoff twins would be arriving soon.

The three of you had been cooking up a storm just as the sun had begun to peep over the horizon, spending the time listening to Rose telling stories over a hot cup of tea as she chopped and diced her way through an assortment of foods: onions, tomatoes and carrots - while the Baptiste piped honey and lemon-butter filling on the halved macarons that had been cooling on the rack. You, on the other hand, simply sat and observed, only getting up to clear the counter tops or to throw out unwanted scraps.

You sighed in fatigue as you finished off the last braid on Baptiste's head. The lack of sufficient sleep, paired with having to wake up at an ungodly hour in the morning, was starting to take its toll on your body - which was aching from when you'd over-exerted yourself the previous afternoon, planting flowers in Mrs. Barnes' garden. However, despite how uncomfortable it had been laying on the stiff mattress of your bed, it wasn't the dull ache in your muscles that had resulted in your restlessness.

It was James Barnes.

Your mind had wandered numerous times, remembering the way he'd pressed himself up against you, murmuring unintelligible, foreign sin in your ear, how his large hand felt searing hot against your neck - the _sinful_ smirk that ghosted his face. Those thoughts had kept you tossing and turning all night, the need to sleep all but gone, as you shuddered and pulled the blankets tighter around your body. _Dammit_!

You yawned loudly, arms stretched and back arched as you felt a satisfying pop between your shoulder blades. When you relaxed and opened your eyes, you found Baptiste's striking eyes on you, an amused, knowing smile on her face.

"Did you not get enough sleep, _mon amie_?" She asked, her voice was so youthful and girly, she had an accent that bordered between French and British - although the former outweighed the other by a considerable margin. "Or, were you dreaming of a certain man with strong arms and a wide, gap-toothed smile?"

You narrowed your eyes at her as she giggled. There was something about the young French girl that felt oddly familiar. You could have sworn you had seen her face somewhere long before the day you'd ridden on the carriage with her and Jacques.

She was, in fact, 17 years old, with beautiful yellow wood skin and a thick head of curly-coiled, brown hair. Although you didn't know much about her backgroud, or her parents, you assumed she must have favoured her father because of her prominent jaw and chin, along with the thick, densely packed eyebrows. The rest of her, however, must have been her mother's features - full, pouty lips, slightly chubby cheeks and high cheekbones. Her eyes were doll-like; a round and glassy shimmering green with a murky brown in the centre - it was hard to discern who she inherited that attribute from. Regardless, she was a beautiful young thing, innocent and naive, but sometimes, surprisingly witty.

Rose chuckled and your own contrasting eyes fell on her before they landed on young Baptiste again, a look of betrayal on your face. "You told Rose about - _him_?!"

"No, of course she didn't, my dearest." You exhaled in relief. "Fabian did."

You reeled. _Fabian_?! How on earth did he know? You cast a look of accusation at Baptiste. Had the little fox told everyone?

"Fabian, _Baptiste_?! That man is like a father to the both of us, you can't just strike up conversations with him about love and boys! What will he think?!" Your voice cracked as it raised incredulously, eyebrows almost touching your hairline as your forehead crinkled.

" _Oh_! So, you admit that you are in _love_ with Monsieur Wilson then?" Baptiste doubled over in mirth, tears twinkling in her eyes as her face began to colour from laughing so hard. You crossed your arms with an annoyed huff and scowled down at the girl, who was now leaning her forehead against your shoulder, trying to catch her breath. The sheer nerve!

"I don't believe my father pays for the three of you to dilly-dally." 

The three of you froze as James stalked into the kitchen, disapproval etching deep frown lines around his mouth and in between his eyebrows. He threw each of you a stormy glance, you tried to hold his gaze, wanted to show him that he didn't hold the power of fear over you. But, eventually, you found yourself looking away, those haunting eyes shrinking you into submission - in fact, he'd made sure to narrow his eyes at you as he approached Rose. Baptiste immediately excused herself and scurried out of the kitchen, no doubt ashamed of having being caught cackling her life away rather than attending to her duties. He stood with his back straight and large arms tucked behind him, head held high as he looked down at Rose, who simply looked back at him with a neutral face.

 _"The Maximoff twins have arrived. I have asked one of the servants to move them to the guest room, as the dining room table needs to be reset_." You slumped in disappointment as you listened to the young Barnes speak to Rose, shutting you out by addressing her in French.

" _Reset, Monsieur? Whatever for?_ " The questioning tone in the small woman's voice, laced with surprise, caused your ears to perk up, lifting your blue-brown gaze to focus on the two of them as you sat up straight on the counter.

James slightly turned his head to where you were seated, taking a glimpse at you, before looking back at Rose. He stepped in front of her, blocking Rose from your sight but giving a generous view of his broad, muscular back and shoulders, as they began to speak in hushed tones - his low murmur creeping up your skin. You swallowed back a shuddering breath as you remembered him whispering against your lips. You shifted in your seat. 

Once they concluded, he turned his steely gaze towards you and strutted over. Your breath became shallow, as his eyes flickered with the same emotion you couldn't name, when you'd come to after the incident with Natasha. He looked you up and down, and you held back a shocked gasp when his hand suddenly shot out, grasping your arm, although his grip was surprisingly gentle.

"Why are you sitting there?" He asked, his voice was gritty, his handsome face emotionless and stony, completely contradicting the tenderness of his hand on your arm. There was a quiet shuffling behind him. 

"Monsieur, let her go. She was only-"

She was instantly silenced by James throwing a cold, venomous glare over his shoulder, prompting the mousey older woman to fall back and redirect her attention to the food that was now ready to be served - you saw her turn her head slightly, sending you an apologetic look and a nervous smile.

"I'll ask you again - _why_ are you sitting there?!" You grunted quietly, hopping off the marbeled surface in the hopes that he would be relent. He didn't. You mulled over prospective answers, trying to figure out which of them would land you in the least amount of trouble - internally rejoicing when your eyes landed on the high cabinets and shelves situated above the counter on which you were sitting.

"Rose was unable to reach the topmost shelf," you pointed at the double-door cabinet mounted high and out of considerable reach of aforementioned Rose. There was a shelf containing the most expensive fine bone china you'd ever laid eyes on - not even your mama's master would have been able to afford just one of the pieces. "I had yet to climb up and retrieve the teacups and saucers for her, when you walked in... _Monsieur_."

His eyes narrowed and glanced up at the oak cabinet. There was a tense moment of silence as he processed your answer, the gears in his mind clicking into place, while his eyes flitted up and down the row of shelves. His icy-blue eyes landed on your face briefly, before they shot in Rose's direction, who was now leaning against the marble counter with folded arms. She merely tilted her head and held his cold gaze fearlessly.

"And Baptiste?" _Oh dear!_

Rose straightened her back, mild annoyance written on her weathered face.

"Oh, let it go, boy! It was just banter!" She exclaimed. "Besides, in the absence of your ability to look past your own interests, they're both young and extremely attractive girls. 

It would be foolish to think that any man, with his senses in working order, could dismiss the opportunity to woo them." 

You nearly choked as you struggled to stifle the laughter that was bubbling up deep in your chest. You caught the subtle jabs she had taken at the youngster, a smug look on her face as both pairs of steely eyes battled for dominance. Witnessing someone stand up to James Barnes was a feat you thought impossible, even suicidal - and a woman no less! It was admirable! Her grey eyes showed no room for intimidation, her jaw tensing as she unravelled her arms and let them fall to her side. 

Eventually, he released his tight grip on your arm with a quiet sigh, slinking towards another cupboard in the room. Going down on his haunches, he opened its door and pulled out four white porcelain saucers, followed by four teacups, each gently placed on the counter. There was a single rose delicately painted in the centre of each saucer and on the inside of the cups. 

Looking over at Rose with a raised eyebrow, you opened your mouth to say something, only to shut it again when you realised there was nothing to say. Seeing James perform such a simple, yet domestic task was, honestly, quite...overwhelming. And it only took a brief stand-off with the small statured Rose! Tall and intimidating James Barnes had just _submitted_ \- to _Rose_?!

You were too stunned and too deep in thought, to realise he was standing in front of you again, your eyes wide and blinking as you tried to make sense of what had happened. 

His hand rested on your arm, less imposing this time - apologetic even. You first looked down at the point of warmth connecting to yours, and then at his face, a questioning look in his eyes. He had said something. Or asked. Still a bit dazed and caught of guard by...everything, you asked him to repeat himself, to which he obliged.

"I said - mother forbids anyone from using the crockery in that cabinet. It's merely there for show. I would have expected Rose to divulge this information with you." That last sentence carried an unmistakeable hint of bitterness in it. He nodded to the cups and saucers he'd just removed and said, "the pieces over there are for serving guests." 

You nodded and flashed a small smile, thanking him. He gave you a stiff cant of his head and turned to Rose, looking at her briefly before excusing himself - politely. If you had simply been confused before, this odd exchange - and James' new demeanor - had you completely thrown for a loop. _What on earth?!_

Once he had left the kitchen, Rose chuckled and shook her head, a fond look and smile gracing her face. "You know, he used to be a lot sweeter growing up. When he was 7, he brought me a frog as a gift." She laughed. "Said he wanted to thank me for fixing up his scraped knee - such a darling boy."

It was then you realised why she didn't fear the large brute of a man - she had been around him for most of his life, from childhood all the way into adulthood, helping Mrs. Barnes raise him, while his father was most likely away serving in the military. 

"His father ruined him!" You raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to continue. She was deep in thought, seeming to age about 5 years, as she raked through memories she most likely wished she could forget. Her eyes locked on yours and there was deep kind of sadness in them. She sighed.

"Bucky wasn't always so broody and imposing. It was only after he turned 15, that everything changed.

His father, George, had just returned from Switzerland, newly promoted in the army. 

He said he wanted his boy to follow in his footsteps and enlist, something about Bucky being too soft and how going to war would toughen him up - 'turn him into a real man', he'd said. But, the missus absolutely refused, fearing for her son's life, or worse - that he might become his father, all cold and distant. Affectionless." Rose sighed again and pushed a grey strand of hair from her face.

"His parents would fight all the time, nothing new to those of us working in the household, and most of the time they just traded heated words and it would blow over - none of us ever expected it to escalate.

But then, Bucky came across his parents arguing one night." She paused and you watched her eyebrows knit together, while she frowned deeply, as though she were in some kind of distress.

"It just seemed as though God had wanted poor Bucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

No one knows what it was that Winnie said to Mr. Barnes, but whatever it was, led to George laying his hands on his wife for the first time." Rose shook her head slightly. Her eyes seemed empty and she looked as though she was stuck somewhere in the darkest corner of the past. 

"Bucky intervened, screaming and yelling at his father to stop, but George wouldn't listen, kept wailing on his wife - so Buck swung at his daddy, and all hell broke loose." 

Her eyes welled up and she sniffed, taking a deep breath in and blowing it out shakily.

Your throat felt tight all of a sudden, and you swallowed thickly. "What happened?"

"The bastard beat that darling, sweet boy black and blue!" You raised a hand to your mouth. 

"It was the scariest thing I ever saw! His eyes - there was no feeling in his eyes. He just kept beating and kicking his own son, swearing and cussing him out. Called Winnie a whore and said Bucky wasn't his kid - all because she wouldn't let that boy go to war!"

Your eyes began to sting. Images of a teenage James laying on the ground while someone he thought he loved and could look up to, broke him apart piece by piece , filtered through your mind. You tried to imagine your own mama in that position, her cheek bruised or lip busted, crying out and calling your name as someone marked you with their hands and feet. Your own young body curled up into a fist of broken bone and blood. You wiped the tear rolling down your cheek. 

"Oh, my sweet." Rose approached you swiftly and pulled you into an awkward, but comforting embrace, stroking your back which you had to bend a little in order to rest your chin on her shoulder. Eventually, you both pulled back, sniffling, and she gave you a sad smile before continuing. "He was never the same after that. Never socialised, often kept to himself if he wasn't at his mother's side...and then he enlisted with the army, good Lord." 

Rose rubbed her eyebrows in exasperation.

"He did it to get away from this house and all those awful memories - get away from his father. Needless to say, that didn't help him one bit - especially after Russia. It was like having a ghost walking around the place, all silent like. He also developed a real hot-headed temper, much like George. Anything would set him off and we were wise enough to stay out of his way. We were all terrified of him!

He has gotten better over the last year though." She looked up at you and tilted her head again, eyebrows knit in concentration as realisation flickered in her mind. 

"In fact, this is the first time I've ever seen him so...cordial and polite. Usually, we go back and forth until I surrender and let him have things his way." She looked at you as though trying to fit you into an equation that was troubling her mind. Things were silent for a moment, while she battled with choosing her next set of words, eventually settling with a smile and a gentle pat on your shoulder. 

"Come." She said. "I think it's time we served the food. That Maximoff boy has the appetite of a bear, he'll be inhaling the food through his nose if we keep him waiting any longer."

You laughed heartily as Rose placed the large platter of macarons in your arms, carrying five bowls in her own with great skill. 

The small woman was beginning to grow on you, and a part of you couldn't help but appreciate the newly formed bond.

If only you knew: that bond would be of great importance, not only for you - but several others as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The next chapter is triggering. Very triggering...  
> Just a heads up!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!! This chapter is very triggering. It contains elements of sexual assault/violence, some misogyny and of course racist language. 
> 
> Read at your own risk!
> 
> Another chapter. I feel like two chapter updates make sense for my life on most occasions, except in this instance where the second chapter ends on a cliffhanger...it's killing me softly on the inside! So the start is basically for the purpose of me trying to get a feel of how to write smut for this particular fic, because it's set in the 1800s...I highly doubt people says things like "ride me like a nasty little cowgirl" LOL. Also wanted to practice writing smut with as little "coarse language" as possible. 
> 
> The next scene up until the end...well...it's part of the story arc, there's a significance to it and reader-san has very unlucky timing.
> 
> Can't really say "enjoy" but...

_A low and husky moan escaped her lips as Bucky began to kiss the column of her neck, warm and scented with lavender._

_His hands were everywhere, in her wet hair, on her naked hips, the low curve in her back - pulling her closer to him, silently praying that she would feel his heart beating steady but hard in his chest. Only for her._

_He pushed her gently up against the rocks, careful not to bruise or scrape the sleek skin of her rear. Only his mouth and teeth could do that, but it would be tender, and he would soothe the stinging with his cool hand and soft lips. The marks necklacing her collarbone, shoulders and throat would be a gift and a reminder to all: she was his little bird, trapped in the wolf's jaws._

_One hand was now dipped under the cool water and settling between the warmth of her thighs, Bucky moving within her rhythmically, thrusting when she'd take a long drawn inhale and release another moan, louder than the last. She tried to stifle the sounds with her full lips against his, wrapping one leg aroung his lean hip to open herself up for him - like Pandora's Box does her secrets. She pulled back from their kiss, foreheads touching and her eyebrows tensing as she felt the slow build of heat in her core._

_"James."_

_He pulled back and looked at her through half-lidded eyes._

_His own hair was free from its silk ribbon prison, stuck to his face and forehead like dark, veiny rivers funneling through the earth's channels. Despite the cool temperature of their surroundings, he felt hot and flustered, the body of water failing to quell his thirst for release. She said his name again and he felt something heady but pleasant awaken inside of him._

_The way she said it - like she wanted him to stop driving her deliciously insane, but wanted him to continue, faster and harder until she was a blubbering yet silent mess. It sounded like a praise and a plea - like love, and in that moment he felt his chest swell. He'd never heard anything more beautiful in his life._

_He smiled, crinckling the corners of his blue eyes - dilated to the point where he believed he could feel it - as he gazing on lovingly at the golden girl in his arms. He began to roll deeper in the apex of her trembling thighs, his thrusts angled and quick, but still controlled._

_He cradled the back of her head as it tilted towards the stars, watched her open those unique, jewelled eyes as they danced and twinkled under the watchful moon. Her stormy eye darkening as she edged closer to the precipice, the brown one warm and honey-electric, as both orbs gazed upon his flushed face._

_Bucky suppressed a chuckle at the way her hair, normally styled up and away from her face, was hanging in her eyes and around her shoulders, a little past the collarbone, in medium-sized dark, twisted ropes. She looked ravenous and ruined and Bucky just knew she was going to be exquisite upon her unravelling._

_Moving his hands to her lower back, Bucky began to rock faster into her slick heat. The friction causing him to grunt occassionally as puffs of air released from their hot mouths - they were both getting closer. He laid his head against her shoulder, tasting the light salt there as he left a trail of wet kisses against her skin, glistening with sweat and drops of water that remained long after she'd first waded deep into the inky water. Her lips were kiss-swollen and parted, dark eyesbrows drawn deeper, as pleasure began to ripple through her with every slippery thrust._

_The night was still, tepid and silent save for the sound of water gently lapping around the two wanderous lovers' feverish bodies. Bucky closed his eyes and focused on how her soft hands dug into his hair and back, her sex closing tighter around him and as he finally stroked that achingly sweet spot within her - igniting the flames - he listened to the melody of her voice, riding the waves of love-making bliss._

_Oh! How his precious little bird sang!_

_It was so perfect - she was perfect, and he was getting so close. His blood rushing through the length of him, he could feel the familiar twitch of satisfaction begin to unravel - could feel his own sparks firing in his stomach._

_If only he could reach a little further out to touch her, before she flew away again..._

Bucky woke up to his room shrouded in darkness - the moon serving as a dim source of light - while he felt warmth slung across his chest and nestled against him. He also felt an uncomfortable rush surging through the most intimate part of his body. 

Rubbing his eyes, still heavy with sleep, he glanced down at his side to find a woman, different from the one in his vivid dream, submerged in slumber. Her red hair was splayed against the satin pillow, some of it falling across her peaceful face. 

 _Natasha_.

Upon hearing that Wanda and Pietro would be attending an informal brunch at the Barnes' Manor, she merely waltzed her way into the large house and announced her presence, insisting that Bucky reset the table in order to include her. Her suspension from the household had yet to be removed, but, considering his parents weren't even in the city, Bucky decided to entertain her. After all - this was the woman he was expected to marry some time in the near future. 

He frowned.

He wasn't too thrilled at the prospect of marriage - in fact, for most of his young adult life, he didn't even entertain the idea. But, it was customary, leaving no room for argument- even though he knew that Natasha was no where near ready for that level of commitment either. She held little regard for others and had a mouth of vitriol. Coupled with a temper filled with enough anger for him and his father - how could he forget the look in her eyes when she nearly burnt that poor girl's face off? - and the rumours of her notorious family background, Bucky couldn't be bothered to even _try_ to find any decent qualities about her. Besides the fact that she was a convenient fuck. He was sure she felt the same way about him.

But looking down at her, all peaceful and sidled up against him, Bucky couldn't help but admit to her beauty - which was all she had to offer him, unfortunately. There was no doubt in his mind that she was extremely intelligent, and yet she still failed to intrigue him intellectually, although perhaps he should take fault in that regard. When had Bucky ever tried to engage in a meaningful conversation with anyone, besides Steve and Fury?

Overall, Natasha Romanov - whom he'd known for almost a year - absolutely failed in one particular area: she wasn't his little bird.

Bucky gently pried her creamy arm from his chest and carefully swung his legs over his side of the bed, rubbing his temples as the premature signs of a headache began to scratch at his skull. Huffing in frustration, he stood up to his full height and padded over to his clothes discarded and scattered on the floor, picking up the crisp, pale-blue shirt. He looked at it momentarily, running his thumb along the slightly raised stitch in its sleeve.

Perhaps he could use a brisk walk in the cool night breeze to silence the whispers in his head.

-

There was a large part of you that knew this was bordering on insanity and dangerous. It was in no way safe for a woman - let alone a woman of your background - to be out wandering around alone at night, but you were experiencing your second night of restlessness and the humid French summer was not helping in the least. No amount of tossing and turning, or singing your mother's lullabies was going to bring you any sleep, and so, here you were.

Looking over your shoulder once more, you quickened your steps, silenced by the damp soil and soft leaves beneath your feet. The mansion was now in full view from a distance, which offered little comfort because you still had to trek up a slight hill before entering the property through the rear, where all the little servant quarters were. You had discovered this discreet route a few weeks ago, while hanging yours and your fellow housemate's washing during laundry day.

~

_There was a long line of densely packed trees that stretched wide past the expanse of the mansion and its land, leading away from the servant's homestead and deep into the woods. Because it was spring at the time, some of the forestation sported beautiful flowers that bloomed white, pastel purple and pink against the green leaves. The sun was needling through the thick brush of leaves overhead and the scenery left you gasping at how surreal it seemed. As you went deeper into your newfound haven, following the sounds of a bubbling brooke, you came across various wildlife - nothing serious, just the ocassional rabbit, or squirrel scurrying above in the branches - which meant there must have been a source of water somewhere, perhaps a little stream or even a river._

_Your hunch was right. Walking a few more meters past the clustered trees and pushing your way through some rather troublesome shrubbery, what was once a compact landscape of tree trunks, thick leaves and tufts of grass covering the dark soil littered with thin rays of sun, now became green, succulent grass that stretched beyond your vision on either side of where you stood. The blue sky overhead, scattered with light, white clouds, was visible through an opening in the trees and the sun shimmered and danced as a body of water - too large to be a stream but too small to be a river - flowed off into the distance. There were mushrooms sprouting here and there and moss covered the trees that were now less in population, vines twisting their way up towards the branches._

Mother Nature had been too kind _._

 _You had a moment to rejoice this little slice of heaven, but you knew you wouldn't be able to fully indulge in the new surroundings because you had a long list of chores to complete. So you returned back to the Barnes' mansion and your laundry, taking a mental note of the route so as to not get lost when you had the opportunity to visit again._  

~

Your breath hitched as you gathered your long skirt a little higher, allowing you to take larger, quicker strides. You could have sworn you heard the distinct sound of a twig snapping, something - an animal, you hoped - hidden in the shadows was either watching you, or worse, following you. 

You cursed yourself for not following your instincts when you'd first entered the woods. The dark shadows cast by the trees, the forboding silence, the lack of any sign of activity? Your own mind was practically raising up and frantically waving a bunch of red flags at you! But curiosity - and not wanting to spend another minute in that plank of a bed - had gotten the better of you, and now here you were, on the brink of a heart attack, weaving your way in and out of the trees and trying not to get attacked or killed.

Moving as fast as your tired, burning legs could carry you, you saw the exit of the woods growing near up ahead. There was a clear open field, lit up by the moon, and once you made it past the threshold of trees, it would be a straight dash up a small hill and right into the yard where your cottage stood - where you would be safe. For a brief moment, relief washed over you and joy replaced fear - even pushing yourself past your limits as you lifted your knees higher, willing your muscles to work harder, move faster.

But your sliver of elation was short-lived, as a large mass jumped out of the shadows and stood in front of you, his legs parted wide and knees bent slightly with his arms stretched out in anticipation of you running straight into him. You gasped audibly, your heart pounding in your throat as the sound of blood surging through your ears drowned out all sound. You think you screamed. 

The momentum of your sprint meant you couldn't slow down and left no room for you to manouver your way around, perhaps stuttering your steps to one side and taking off in the other. So, instead, you took a sharp right, less than an arm's distance away from his grabbing hands and made a break for it, hoping to lose him in the shadows and maze of trees. Your skirt fluttered behind you, and he lunged forward grabbing the material and yanking it back. The force of the jerk caused you to trip up, slowing your steps long enough for him to leap forward and grab you from behind. This time you heard your scream piercing the night. 

You felt a clammy hand clamp over your mouth, muffling your next attempt at calling for help. 

"Wow! You make an awful lot of noise." His voice was gruff and strained as he started dragging you away from the exit and deeper into the dark corners of the woods. Tears made their way down your face, your nose starting to run as you felt fear manifesting in the pit of your stomach and rising into your chest. You were praying to whatever forces existed that you would at least die from your over-pulpitating heart, long before the stranger had the chance to lay his grimey hands on you.

_Mama didn't raise no victim._

You weren't sure if it was her rich voice repeating itself amongst all the chaotic thoughts running through your head, or the small bout of terror mixed with anger surging through your body - or both - but you started fighting back. First, you bit into his dirty hand, the taste of iron tickling your tongue as you drew blood. He grunted in agitation, but he let up on his hold, giving you the chance to scream again.

"HELP!!!" Although it clawed at your throat, now dry due to the effects of fear coursing through your body, it came out crystal clear. You doubted it would do much help though, considering your desolate location - you would have to be your own saviour. Closing your eyes and inhaling deeply, you cocked your head a little to the side and threw it back as hard and fast as the muscles in your neck would allow. There was a soft crunching sound and he released you with a loud groan, probably nursing his broken nose.

Not wasting time, you hitched the bottom half of your skirt all the way up to your waist, and high-tailed it out of there, picking any random direction as you twisted and turned at every corner, hoping to lose him in the trees and bushes. You could hear his laboured breathing and heavy footsteps somewhere behind you, pumping your aching thighs and pounding your tired feet into the ground as you sped up and tried to put a significant gap between the two of you. There was a burning sensation in your lungs and your mouth tasted like blood, even though it was dry - but you kept on running, blinded by the sheet of darkness that now engulfed you as you ran into an area of the woods where the trees were more dense, the leaves thick and clumped together, hiding the moon.

You slowed down a little and tried to control your frantic breaths as you listened closely for any sound of the assailant still chasing you. 

Nothing. 

You stopped, and listened again.

It was so dark, and together with your dizzy daze, you could barely make out anything in front of you. Stumbling a little to the left, you reached out to place your hand against the nearest tree trunk, heaving in and out as you tried to gain control over your searing lungs.

But there wasn't the rough, hard texture of bark under the palm of your hand - you froze.

Before you could even process what was happening, he struck you hard across the face. You collapsed to the ground, stunned and confused, a stinging sensation on your upper lip and a dull ache on your cheek. And then, he was on top of you, straddling your torso with all of his weight pressing you down into the cold ground.

Tears rolled out of the corners of your eyes and down towards your temples. He had found you - there was no getting out of this alive, no fighting back. You had been given a clear shot at getting away and squandered it - and now, you were going to die. In a failed attempt to fight back, you swung your arms at him, catching his shoulders and swiping at his face. He merely grunted and then he chuckled, low and sadistic - your skin felt as though a thousand little bugs were crawling under it. He grabbed your wrists and pinned your hands above your head with one hand, his vice-like grip uncomfortable and cutting off some of the blood circulation to your hands, which were now numb.

Scooting down your body, he leaned forward until you could hear his rabid breathing in your ear, all hot and disgusting.

"You _fucking nigger_ bitch!" You swore on your life, if you miraculously made it out alive, you would _never_ forget his rough, gravel voice. He lifted his hips slightly to make space between your bodies for his other hand, which was now tearing at your skirt greedily with so much force, the fabric burned against your skin. Seeing that there were too many layers in his way, he began tugging your skirt up, revealing your legs and the lower half of your body to the cold night air. He roughly palmed the junction between your thighs, digging his fingers up and into your clothed folds, causing you to cry out in pain, before he grabbed the flimsy fabric of the smallclothes covering your crotch and tore some of it away.

A heightened sense of panic set in and your mind kicked into fight or flight. You began twisting this way and that, exploiting the bit of space between his thighs. He backhanded you again, putting an end to your movements, before grabbing your throat, squeezing tight around your airway, until there were white spots flashing behind your closed eyelids.

"Quit your fucking squirming, you filthy harlot!" He rasped through gritted teeth, clamping harder on your throat as you began to gasp and choke for much needed oxygen. "Thought this was gonna be a dull, cold night staking these fucking woods - now I caught myself a pretty little fighting negro girl!"

He laughed maniacally and pressed his body against yours, his arousal nudging against your mound, leaning in to bite sharply on your neck. A strangled shriek wrestled its way from your constricted throat and he showed his sadistic, sick pleasure by bucking his hard erection up against you. Pulling back, he licked his lips and muttered, "a tasty, fighting nigger whore. I'm gonna fucking put you in your place, where your trashy kind belongs - beneath me!"

Everything was starting to spin. One hand let go of your wrists, whilst the other, now slightly looser and allowing you to breathe, maintained its wrap around your neck, you could barely make out the ruffling sound of his hand unfastening his trousers, pushing them down to release his cock.

"I wonder what other noises your whore mouth makes." 

There was a thin, shallow flow of air passing in and out of your lungs, but the prolonged deprivation of oxygen alongside the hard hits to your face, left you feeling tired, numb and dazed. 

No one knew where you were. No one had heard your screams. You had fought valiantly, but alas, you had lost.

As you felt the tip of him brushing against your entrance, a lone tear trickled from your earth-brown eye and disappeared into your hair as you looked up into the tree tops and sent a silent prayer to the heavens. 

Then, you let go, and surrendered yourself to fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, please don't hate me y'all! 
> 
> FYI, a majority of this scene at the end was hard to write, cause its not entirely made up and is based on a true event. I had to take a few moments to pause and breathe, but I eventually got through it!
> 
> I WISH I could say I have the next chapter ready for you...but I don't *sobs* I'm really sorry if you hate cliffhangers and this just happens to be such a vile cliffhanger!!!! 
> 
> I'm also truly and deeply sorry if this triggered anyone in any way, that was never my intention!
> 
> Anyway, don't forget to kudos and especially comment, feedback is key m' guys!!
> 
> Peace and Bacon Grease xx


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all hope is lost...

Bucky stopped and cocked his head to the left.

There was no sound, save for the trees rustling in the now gentle breeze. That wouldn't do. He took a step to the left, making to head in a north-easterly direction and navigate his way through the thicket of trees and darkness.

Prior to leaving the comfort of the manor in the dead of night, Bucky's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of someone wandering about, briefly walking towards the paved driveway before abruptly turning, and heading in the opposite direction. He scrunched his eyebrows in suspicion, instinct gnawing at him to follow the silhouette that waded down the hill towards the darkness of the woods. Taking long strides and sticking to blind spots, so as to not startle the wanderer, Bucky was able to make out the long, trailing skirt that indicated he was tailing a woman. 

She had disappeared into the inky shadows beneath the leaves, and he'd followed closely behind, slightly baffled as to why anyone - specifically a woman - would expose themselves to the possible dangers lurking in the French night and wilderness.

It was then that he lost her, and because it was so dark, it would be impossible to track her footsteps in the ground. Huffing, he resigned himself to making his way over to his last little joy; the secret cove where the water bubbled and the air smelt of fresh dew and water-lily. But, he was stopped by a scream tearing through the silence, like a sharp carving knife ripping through a black tapestry. When he heard the distinct cry for help through the thick trees, he filtered the sound through one ear, his brain shifting into gear, deftly calculating and evaluating the situation at hand. He came to a disturbing conclusion: it was the woman he'd been tailing earlier on.

Just as he came jogging towards a clearing in the trees, he heard an infuriated, masculine grunt and a set of light footsteps scurrying off into the darkest part of the woods. The assailant cursed as he stumbled to his feet and chased after her, boots pounding in the dirt as he went lumbering along the same route.

As Bucky watched the scenario unfolding before him, he was able to make out the physique of the attacker; nearly similar in build, but much slower on his feet. That meant he was most likely a veteran soldier, much older in age, evident in he how struggled to catch his breath before taking off into the night, many years of inactivity catching up to him.

The young Bucky had done the same, speed, youth and agility on his side. He was hoping to make it to the scared woman before her assailant did. Alas, he'd lost his way in the dense brush of forestry, the moon barely lighting a path for him, nor the other two people trapped in the dark jaws of their surroundings.

Suddenly, he picked up on what sounded like a sharp, stinging slap, followed by a faint cry. Bucky halted. 

Another strong gust of wind timeously whistled through the trees, carrying the sound of a muffled shriek and fabric ripping. Honing his dextrous skills, Bucky pintpointed the source of the strange noises and took off, heading west. His boots barely making a dent in the soil beneath - he was that light-footed. That silent.

The low cursing of a gruff male voice became clearer as Bucky got closer, arriving just in time to catch the end of the man's sentence, "-caught myself a pretty, little, fighting negro girl." 

The vice grip of dread clutched at his stomach as he connected the dots; _pretty, little, negro girl_. He knew his assumptions may have been circumstantial, but Bucky had fought in enough wars to know, second guessing yourself, meant losing your life. He had carried out missions in which all he had in his favour, was an impressive set of skills and unbelievably accurate instinct, both of which contributed to his consistent success.

Bucky chose to blend with the long bodies of tree trunks, biding his time. Waiting for the opportune moment to present itself.

"I wonder what other noises your whore mouth makes." 

The tell-tale rustling of fabric and a weak sob confirmed what Bucky had already known. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. Something shifted in his anger, his vision locking on the barely illuminated outlines of the two people in front of him. The atmosphere thinning - becoming cold and crisp. 

_The Soldier_ was crawling up his skin and igniting in his chest. His mind.

Stalking silently in the night, he inched closer towards the target, so preoccupied with satisfying his own sadistic thirst, he couldn't sense the third presence stalking him. It was only when the sound of a twig lightly cracked behind him, that he took a moment to pause. A big mistake.

Suddenly, the night air was filled with the sound of skin hitting skin. Bone cracking under the hefty weight of cold, strong knuckles connecting perfectly to stun the unknown man. With a startled grunt, the brute fell to the floor with a hard thud, collapsing like a sack of bricks. In an instant, The Soldier was on him.

Launching his assault, he grabbed the man by the throat in his right hand and pounded into his bruised face with his left, the filthy stranger trying and continuously failing to meekly fend off the hard hits, each one leaving him more disoriented than the last. The constricting grip on his larynx tightening with every exhale - so tight, he could feel his eyes bulge, white spots and flashes littering his pitch black vision.

The Soldier was relentless. Long after the struggling had stopped and the body had gone limp, the air was still thick with the sound of blood squelching as the brutal beating continued. No one survived Winter.

The repeated wailing would never have ceased, if it weren't for a pitiful whimper materialising from over his shoulder. 

Bucky halted, arm recoiled and fist poised to strike again. He suddenly snapped out of his cold, murderous daze and reality came rushing back. He was breathing heavily, his hair slightly damp as some of it clung to his face, slightly damp from perspiration. There was a dull ache throbbing over his knuckles, most likely speckled and bruised from excessively running his fist into the hard bone of the man's face. 

Dropping his now dead adversary, Bucky clambered up to his feet and turned to face the direction from which the noise came from. 

Silence. 

He couldn't trace her outline from where he'd originally fought off her attacker, which meant she most likely dragged herself further away from the two men out of sheer terror. She probably thought he'd come to finish off what another man started. 

"I know you're afraid. But, I'm not here to hurt you." he said matter-of-factly. He was met with silence again, crickets and frogs the only source of sound, as they chirped and croaked in the late night solitude. His eyes scanned over the area, narrowing them as though they would somehow enhance his vision, perhaps trace her body heat or improve visibility. It was fruitless. 

A particularly cold breeze swirled the leaves at his feet and bit into his cheeks. He could almost feel it through the thickness of his jacket and pullover, and he shivered a bit, letting out a stream of air. If she stayed out in this unforgivable weather any longer, she would most certainly die of exposure. 

"He won't harm you anymore, I've seen to it. But if you don't speak, then we will both, surely, freeze to death." 

Once again, it was quiet. Closing his eyes, he exhaled and loosened a fist he'd unconsciously curled in a bid not to let his frustration surface. Counting to ten, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and then - for the first time since she'd set foot in the Barnes household - he called her name. It sounded strange and unusual rolling off his tongue. Foreign.

He licked his dry lips and asked, "Do you not trust me, _ptichka_?" 

That seemed to garner a reaction from her. The comforting timber of Bucky's voice - that strange, yet familiar word - caused her to gasp quietly before being overcome by shallow, hacked breaths of relief and residual trauma. She was trying to control the sheer distress evident in the shaky dispell of air from her cold lungs, breath catching as she began to hyperventilate. 

He rushed over to her, trying to make out her cowering form as best he could, shucking his jacket off. Bucky kneeled down by her side, and moved to drape it around her shaking shoulders, but was unexpectedly halted by the young woman throwing her arms around his torso, burying her bruised and tear stricken face in his chest. 

She clawed at his back, clutching fistfuls of his clothing desperately, as she managed a strangled, "don't leave me, please!" 

Bucky, silently stammered, caught off guard by the force, before opting to wrap his arms around her shaking shoulders and pulling her closer.

"I won't- I'll never leave you," he finally said. 

There in the cold darkness, he held onto her, realising how she did not fear him, even though moments before, The Soldier within had been unleashed to exercise its full wrath. What Bucky had not realised was the sense of calm and quiet that was now filling his mind, the dark shadows of his "other side" twirling like mist and rolling back into the folds of his mind.

As they rocked gently to the howling tune of the bitter wind, Bucky felt strange sensations begin to toil inside of him. He didn't want to admit it aloud, but he was beginning to develop stronger, deeper urges towards her. First, there was his risque and sexual fantasy, and now, he was feeling protective of her. The third, he was currently indulging in. All of which presented a problem.

James Buchanan Barnes was the societal epitome of old, filthy rich aristocrasy. He wore expensive clothes, had almost everyone at his beck and call, and was courting one of the most beautiful women inside of his social circle. His illustrious family and upbringing, his prestigious military career, his entire life; past, present and future; and the people with whom he shared it - all culminated into a big, perfect portrait painted in beautiful, rich colours. 

But, unbeknownst to him, this particular portrait would be horribly flawed - and not by the hands of the young girl with jewel-toned eyes. 


	12. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY BABES!!! So finally, after a few undying readers asked me wtf had happened to this fic, I'm finally updating!!! It's been a minute, but I managed to get bit by the creative bug and so I'm delivering the first part of my update to you now. I kiss just say there and started writing and writing and writing until I couldn't feel my fingers, and find myself with more material than I'd like in one chapter, but that's a good thing because part two can be expected soon!
> 
> I just wanted to clear the air on a few things though:
> 
> Firstly, I spent days reading and reaquainting myself with this fic. I made tons of mental notes on what to improve and the direction in which I was headed was very discombobulated, so I had to go back to the drawing board and look at the storyline with a new outlook. Therefore, the some of the tags may not entirely match up with the fic (too lazy to change them LOL)
> 
> Secondly, as some or most of you have noticed in my Musical Chairs collection, my writing has improved substantially and that will be a constant in all my other stories. So you can expect something similar to MC but in 2700 words or less. Please do not be shocked if the atmosphere of Grey Areas holds a little more depth and seems somewhat "matured"; that's a result of growth and writing under the guidance of an amazing and talented mentor/fairy-god editor =)
> 
> Lastly, I was keen on having a Sam/Reader/Bucky love triangle but, meh, I realise it won't fit anymore. If the next two chapters are anything to go by, this slow-burn is beginning to come to a boil and throwing a Sam shaped spanner into the works just won't cut it.
> 
> Okay, I'm done now lol. Lemme shut up so y'all can indulge on this long-awaited update...
> 
> ENJOY xx

Rose came barreling into the room like a strong gust of autumn wind, nearly jostling into Bucky's large frame as she rushed across the plush carpeting. Upon arriving at the household, he immediately alerted her of what had taken place - how one of her girls was brutally beaten and violated - and after assuring Rose that, no, the girl was not dead, she sprung out of bed in a panicked flurry, dressing quickly and hurrying into the grand Barnes mansion in the dead of night. 

There was great concern etched on her face, uttering a half-hearted apology before stepping around Bucky and making her way towards the girl trembling on his bed. Her steps were slow and measured, as though she was trying her damndest not to frighten the poor soul away. 

Bucky took his place leaning a lithe hip against the grand piano, where he stood in silence as he took in her appearance for the first time since bringing her back home. She was a dirty mess; her hair matted with dry leaves and clumps of muddy dirt caked in the grooves of her braids, a large tear stretching from the neckline of her loose shirt and plunging down her bust, her skirt shredded and soiled, and one of the sleeves was ripped at the seam, barely dangling by the grace of a few untouched threads. She was just a hollowed out, wide-eyed, teary quivering shadow of her former self. A hollowed shell. Shoulders shaking and brown arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the cold, tears welling up in her eyes when Rose finally reached her and gently cupped her face, turning her head as she examined her injuries 

The slight lustre of the thin scar along her face caught the dim, dancing candle light. Rose then tilted her face the other way, and that was when the small, elderly woman gasped in horror. There was darkness blooming on the high point of her cheek, her left eye bruised and almost swollen shut, the corner of her mouth marred by a purple blemish -  a glistening, bloody cut traversing her lower lip where her teeth had split it in two. She was silently crying now, tears and bruises ruining her face. When she stretched her neck to rest her chin on Rose's comforting shoulder, Bucky clenched a fist as anger and disgust bubbled and rose like burning, acid bile in his stomach.

Even in the insufficient light, he could see the finger-like marks necklacing her throat, traces of red and purple-blue beginning to colour her skin.    

A little longer - a little tighter - and the sick bastard would've killed her. Watched the life and light drain from her eyes as her chest caved and her body stilled with the simple snap of her neck. 

 _No_ , he thought, shaking his head vigorously as he tried to rid himself of ghastly images. Flashes of her alone in the dead silent of the woods, her blue eye glazed and the brown as cold as the earth on which she lay. Bucky knew what death looked like. How it hung thick and foreboding in the air of war torn countries that robbed women of their husbands and sons. He vividly remembers killing a man with his own bare hands. Remembers how air left his lungs with a hissing wheeze. 

It never mattered to him then, he was simply following orders. But now, well, now he realises how close he had to be in order to carry out his task. How personal it was when he flexed his arms, flicked his wrists and twisted his neck with a grim crack, dropping his dead weight to the floor. 

"Master Barnes, are you alright? You're as pale as a ghost," Bucky's eyes snapped open to find Rose standing in front of him with her tiny hand pressed to his forehead. "Should I bring you a glass of water?" 

He was breathing a little faster, his head throbbing at the base of his skull - his bruised left hand clutching the edge of the ledge of his piano so tight, he thought it might splinter in his deadly grip. He hadn't even realised he was now sitting down. With a sigh, he gently removed her hand from his head.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you, Rose." His eyes darted to the girl, who'd been staring at nothing in stone-faced silence. 

"Fatigue then," Rose said. She quickly returned to the bedside, motioning for its silent occupant to rise. "Come along then, dear. We should be getting you to bed as we-"

"No!" 

Both women froze, Rose scrunching her brows in confusion, "Sir?"

Bucky closed his eyes a moment and drew a breath in. Opening them to look at her with a concrete resolve flashing in his glare.

"She sleeps here."

Silence. Stunned silence perhaps. 

Rose opened her mouth to protest, shutting it again when she realised she had nothing to say. 

What he'd just proposed was nothing short of unorthodox - the wealthy sire of a highly decorated military commander and his poorer than poor house girl? Granted that nothing of a physical, intimate, nature would take place, there were serious repurcussions should so much as a whisper leave the room. 

"Monsieur Barnes, you saved me from an assured death, for which I am grateful. But I do not wish to impose," a reserved and quiet voice stated from behind Rose. 

Bucky could see her carefully mulling over her words, her mismatched eyes catching the flickering flame as they shifted this way and that, she was biting the insides of her cheeks. 

"I appreciate the kind gesture, but I believe it would be best if I decline."

"You decline," he repeated it as though she had said something absurd. "Pray, do tell, how sure are you that your aggressor does not lurk outside, awaiting the opportune moment to finish what he started?"

She searched his face as though she would find the answer in the sterness of his eyes, the grim line drawn by his lips, maybe buried somewhere in the thick darkness of his knit brows. She tilted her head in confusion, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I merely acted on impulse to protect you. Pummeling my fists through flesh and bone does not a dead man make. Will you still be able to walk through that door and not look over your shoulder? Sleep peacefully without fear of waking up to his bloody face leering at you?"

Bucky saw her jaw tick, moisture gathering in her eyes. The idea that her attacker may still be alive was nothing if not frightening. 

She looked so broken. Scared. And Bucky didn't know why, wasn't sure if he was wont to say why, but he found it upsetting. Seeing her withdrawn and afraid. 

He had spent several years slipping between the cold grips of a detached, Soviet winter sniper and that of a privileged child raised under the iron fist of his rich, traditionalist father; his inability to feel, to experience any emotion besides anger and pride was inevitable.

But then, this girl, this little hummingbird with captivating eyes and a bright smile and hips swaying lazily beneath the heavy fabric of a kaleidoscope of dresses, came cheerfully buzzing into his garden on a fine summer's day - and he found himself drawn to her. She was different. Exciting and intriguing. She stood out from the dull greys and whites of his childhood home, washed the likes of Natasha - who paled in comparison - away in a wave of yellow, blue and magenta. And because he wasn't the most adept in the department of being unashamedly human - rather operating like a fine tuned, well-oiled machine - he had been unfair to her when he began to _feel_. Playing the overbearing bully, the predator that toyed with its prey before devouring it, sinking its teeth into the soft flesh. 

Tonight, however, the winds changed. A challenger came slinking from the shadows with sneering canines and sinister intentions on his mind. Intentions that would rob her of the light in her eyes; whimsical, colourful and pure in its nature; swallow it whole and feel it slipping down his greedy throat, filling his belly. 

Along the way back to the mansion, trekking beneath the much welcomed silver beam of the moon, with a protective arm thrown around her shoulders, Bucky found himself thinking how strange fate and fortune were. The timing - if that wasn't pure luck, then he didn't know what was.

What if he hadn't been there? What if he'd wandered into the woods after she'd run away to ward off her pursuer?

He looked at her and counted the injuries to her face, the purplish-blue cuff circling her throat, the scratch marks along her bared shoulder... paranoia set in, knocking the wind from his sails.

No.

He'd feel at peace knowing she was sleeping peacefully under his watch. Some would call it the beginnings of an obscure obsession, he'd call it... anything other than the true name of the warmth stirring in what he once thought was the cold, dead depths of his chest. Precaution. Protection maybe.

"Your scare tactic is unwarranted and only aims to increase her anxiety," Rose chided angrily, "and what of the clergy, James? The noblemen? You wish to show misguided compassion, at the expense of your image? 

Your father's illustrious name?!" 

Of all that lay at stake, George Barnes' hard-earned reputation weighed the heaviest. A powerful man who held no regard for anything but his family, their prestige and his business dealings. 

"My father has no quarell with her!" Bucky snapped back. 

"Oh, and how do you intend to explain this away, should he find out?"

The atmosphere was heated and electric as he slowly stood up and swaggered over to the red-haired woman, there was something dangerous lurking in the storm of his gaze, towering over her with a stubborn set in his jaw resembling that of his mother. "There is only three of us in here."

The menacing threat in his voice was unmistakeable, and Rose narrowed her eyes. "Are you implying that I cannot be trusted, Master Barnes?"

Bucky's lips curled into a cold and humourless smirk, "Of course not, Rose. I'm simply pointing out that there are only three of us privvy to the words exchanged within this very room. Words exchanged under duress, I might add."

"You are a very stubborn and equally naive boy, James. Given that I have no intention to share the details of what has taken place here, it is in your best interest to heed my warning.

Your father is a very resourceful man, whose intelligence stretches well beyond any book or academia he's  read over the course of his life. Characteristics that have made him into the successful man he is today - but also very dangerous."

"This," she spread her short arms out to gesture at their surroundings, "undermines everything he's ever worked for, every sacrifice he's made. There is no doubt that he won't hesitate to endevour on the most creative of ways to rid himself any and all obstacles - especially where his son and a low class housemaid are concerned.

I suggest you tread carefully." 

"And I suggest that, unless your duty is not yet fulfilled, you leave my quarters immediately."

They remained embroiled in an intense stare-down, Bucky's face a handsomely calm yet defiant visage as he raised his held his head high, silently challenging the ever perseverant Rose. 

Finally, she relented with a resigned sigh, acceptance, her face softening as she stepped back and turned to her young friend. They said nothing, only sharing another embrace - a heated glare thrown at Bucky - before Rose gracefully departed. Ignoring the Barnes, who had snarkily bid her goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part I. I promise part II will be published VERY soon.
> 
> I'd like to thank those of you who were on my heels regarding this fic. I'd lost my drive to write it and I want very eager on moving forward with it, so THANK YOU!! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are welcome! If you don't feed my inner narcissistic demon and tell me I'm awesome, a dog shits on Bucky's shoe.
> 
> Peace and Bacon Grease xx


	13. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is part 2 =) 
> 
> ENJOY xx

Bucky had shut the door and was returning to his seat, loosening the top button of his bloodied shirt, when he noticed the large, porcelain basin of water and rag left on the polished, black top of his piano.

He frowned, took one look at his forlorn and tired company, another glance at the items, and cursed internally. In a final act of defiance, Rose deliberately negated the task of cleaning and dressing her subordinate's wounds. Which meant he would have the thankless task of undertaking the job himself.

" _Dammit_ , Rose!" 

When his guest looked up at him from her seat at the edge of his bed, Bucky cleared his throat and motioned towards the abandoned items. "Rose has the last laugh after all." 

She only glimpsed at the piano top before fixing her doe eyes on him, blinking twice. "I'm afraid I don't follow." 

"Your face, girl. Rose purposely neglected to wipe the blood on your lip," he said as he began rolling his sleeves, revealing the subtle rope of muscle running up his forearm. He took a brief glimpse at her, "and your eye. It's swollen.

"You sit with those bruises any longer and you'll be black and blue over a fortnight."

Dragging his seat over to the bed, he placed it directly in front of her before handing her the basin, which she balanced carefully in her lap. Finally, Bucky unceremoniously plopped onto the plush cushion of his chair, finding himself at eye-level with her battered face - calling on a monumental amount of self control, so as to not shatter the basin and its contents against the wall. He dipped the soft, white rag into the cold water, wringing it a little and listening to the light trickling sound of water drops soothe the temper beginning to heat up.

When Bucky raised the hand that wasn't holding the anything to her cheek - wanting to steady her face as he worked on her injuries - she flinched, shifting back a fraction and glancing at his hand with wide eyes, as though it were a branding iron - glowing red and radiating with flesh-melting heat. He couldn't fault her. In light of recent events, she would obviously be uncomfortable with the idea of a man touching her. And that only seemed to agitate him more than he expected.

Someone, some stranger, had left a filthy imprint on her and now she couldn't even stand to have a vaguely familiar pair of hands caress her.

Lowering his hand, Bucky opted for a less personal approach, lifting the rag to the blemish along her cheek bone. At first she hissed, grimacing and shifting a little as he began gently wiping away grit clinging to scrape marks he hadn't noticed there before, dampening the cloth again and dabbing in a curved angle leading up to the corner of her brown eye. When he got careless and pressed too firmly into the tenderness of her bruised skin, she reared back and gave him an annoyed look, all furrowed eyebrows and a slight pout. His downturned lips twitched impatiently. Now was not the time. He was beginning to feel fatigue working its ghostly fingers up his arms, over his stiff left shoulder and into his face, settling behind heavy-lidded eyes. He blinked a few times and took a deep breath, fresh oxygen reinvigorating him before he resumed the task at hand. 

She did it again, jumping a little when Bucky planted the cold fabric against her face with a wet plop. He stopped, dropping his hand with an exasperated huff.

"Will you hold still?" he asked.

"You're hurting me," she replied testily, "perhaps if you would refrain from applying so much pressure..."

"And allow you to bleed all over my bed?"

"Will I not be responsible for washing that very blood from your sheets?"

Bucky fell silent, staring at her intensely. He could sense the resentment in the quiet rasp of her words, gradually begun to understand the bitterness laced with her soft-spoken voice. He sat up straight, fixing his tempestuous eyes on hers as they glared at one another for what felt like an eternity. That was when he saw it; twirling and then disappearing from the depths of little black pools encircled by brown and blue.

Shame. 

It caused her lips to tremble and her body to shrink under the weight of his presence - her eyes bouncing between his, before looking away quickly. 

Bucky released his slightly damp, brown hair from the green ribbon holding it back from his face, running a hand through its length. This was definitely something in which he wasn't well versed. He only ever had to worry about himself, dress his own wounds, deal with his own thoughts and misplaced feelings. Now, it felt like he was watching a house slowly burn to the ground while someone remained trapped within its blazing walls. Looking on in horror as he listened to the screams for help die out as the raging flames grew higher. Locked out and unable to help. He was trying not to let the frustration get the better of him, and after running his hand through his hair again, Bucky exhaled. Blew a hot stream of air from his chest to relieve some pressure there. 

For the second time that night, he said her name. Confidently this time. Comfortably - not as cotton-mouthed and strange as earlier on in the bitter cold.

She gave him a sidelong glance. Bucky contemplated his next words before opening his mouth and speaking slowly, carefully. 

"I need you to look at me." he said. A slow blink, a slight movement of her upper lip, he thought she would say something, anything, only to be disappointed when she set her sights on the immaculately pressed, razor thin pleats perfectly lining the front of his shirt. Eyes darting along the light fabric - counting the dried, clay-brown spots of blood splatter that dimished its beauty. "Look, I can't imagine how you must be feeling-"

"Then don't," she simply replied, a sad, wistful smile carving her face. There was no bitterness, no hostility nor malice in her voice anymore, "you might not like it. 

"I don't want your pity, Bucky. Don't need anymore. It offers me nothing but grief. I have enough pity in my pockets, stuffed beneath my pillow, yet I cannot buy myself what little freedom I desire. Nor a piece of soap to wash myself of the smell and feeling of dirt and grime clinging, crawling on my skin."

Two-toned eyes finally settled on his, but the colours were dull and she seemed to be blankly staring right through him. The stormy weather of one eye clouding over the dry, desolate wasteland of the other. There were half-crescent, baggy shadows beneath them and Bucky slowly began to understand the meaning behind those words. He could almost hear the clicks in his head as each wooden piece of the puzzle began to fit its respective notch, corner and curve. A grim realisation beginning to dawn on him.

How could he have missed it? All these years of training heightening his awareness, learning to read body language, and he failed to notice that she wasn't all there. 

Leading her away from the thicket of leaves atop full-bodied tree trunks lining the darkness of the woods, bringing her home, some part of her - the part that made her care-free and pure, smiling with wide-eyed curiosity and a thirst for discovery - snagged in the jagged, claw-like boughs and branches of the trees. The forboding darkness twisted and yanked and jerked until she was violently ripped in two, the other half of her dangling dead in the jaws of what evil had transpired in the depths of the shadows. The cold breeze grew stronger and, like white chiffon caught in a bush of black needle thorns, the innocence Bucky saw in her, when she twirled and danced to a lazy tune humming deep in her throat, was left behind. Flapping flimsily in the howling wind. 

There was nothing left to say. No sound other than that of water dripping rhythimcally into the basin as Bucky wet the rag again and raised it to cool her throbbing skin. There was no room for _sorrys_ ; he didn't know how to say it, and she wouldn't want it anyway.

Mindful of the weight of his hand, he held the rag over her eye in hope of salvaging what little warmth and colour was still visible beneath the thick, blackened folds beginning to swallow it.

He couldn't relate, no matter how much he thought of his own misfortune, trapped in a prison cell surrounded by the smell of rot and burning flesh. Screaming as fire and ice vines wove a thick, fiery-cold sensation that coursed through his veins.

The cloth, no longer pure white but now tainted with clay-red blotches and streaks, cautiously probed the corner of her mouth, trying, in vain, to wipe the crude colour staining it.  

Bucky inched his way in, dragging damp cotton along the blood line splitting her lower lip. His eyes tracking the way the flesh, soft and wet, gave beneath the grainy textile. Her lip twitched slightly, and Bucky risked a quick glance up. Her eyes were closed, her face placid and without frown or dry tears lining her full cheeks. It were almost as though she were pleasantly dreaming, and he briefly wondered what she would dream about. Home perhaps. Her mother or father or siblings.

Him? Was she plagued by vivid visions of her fingers in his hair or his strong arms curving protectively around her waist? Did she also wake to the ghost of feather-light currents on her lips?

Suddenly, despite his complex inner conflict and her simple desire to be free; her thin, delicate brown fingers wrapped around his weathered, skilled, pale hand - the apex predator choosing not to hunt, nor hurt, but rather heal the broken, bloodied wings of a hummingbird - Bucky began to realise how his ghosts and her monsters made them no different than the blue of the sea that reflected in the French sky.

They were heathens. Faith wavering.

Betrayed by humans and abandoned by God. Failed by those who once swore to protect them.

It never left his mind. Long after she had stripped herself of her ruined garments and traded them for the warmth and luxury of Bucky's bed, after her breathing became shallow and her face relaxed, bruised yet beautiful - what made them different; black lines separating white spaces; was beginning to run. 

She was bloodied, bruised and broken. Just like him.

Begged and pleaded when her life was at the mercy of another. Just as he once did.

And she'd been saved. Bucky rescued her when she'd all but lost hope...

Blurry, grey areas were the last thing he saw behind his closed eyes, before Bucky finally succumbed to the crush of exhaustion that delivered sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God writing these two is like climbing Mental Mount Everest! I'm absolutely exhausted, but I delivered - or at least I hope I delivered (._.")
> 
> Anyway, thank you to the beautiful readers who commented and gave me very valuable input regarding the direction and narrative of this fic. You are all so wonderful for taking the time to share your views and providing insight!! Bless your crop and livestock, bless your fruitful harvest LOL
> 
> You know what to do, comment and kudos if you're feeling vibey!! If you don't, then the reviews for Sebastian Stan's new movie well be depressingly dismal
> 
> Peace and Bacon Grease xx


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream sequence...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO MY LOVES!! My goodness it's been the LONGEST time since I was last on here. I'm so sorry for going cold turkey on you all. I had the biggest mental and emotional breakdown recently and it all spans back to when I first got my job and then everything slowly started to pile on and I was suppressing A LOT of shit.
> 
> Needless to say, I'm on a very slow road to recovery and one of my methods of pushing through everything is to start writing again! So here you are. I know it's nothing special, you don't have to read it, however this little update is to help wet my palate and reacquainte myself with this fic. I was recently inspired to get back to it by a very VERY close friend of mine who helped me see my talent and encouraged me to keep on keeping on. So as an incentive to actually work on the next chapter and write consistently, here you go.
> 
> WARNINGS: Very triggering, allusions to sexual assault, dream sequence, violence.

_Pain. That was the first thing registered, the first thing to burn along the surface of your skin and cutting right down to the bone. You stirred a little, fingers twitching and brows trembling as you felt a strange omnipresence shifting in the darkness . You couldn't move, couldn't speak nor see clearly, limbs concrete heavy and unmoving as you attempted to lift your body._

_Something was wrong, you could feel it, that foreboding sense of impending doom creeping its cold, clammy hands up your bruised thighs and along your arms. You began to fret frantically when you felt something/someone's touch coast along the broken wings of your collarbone, pushing and prodding and then caressing the swollen skin, those hands moving higher and higher._

_Everything felt...wet. Cold beads of sweat broke out along your brow before cascading to combine with the rivulets spilling from your eyes. Brain could not correlate with body, only syncing when sharp pain shot from between your thighs and up your spine, imploding in dull, pounding blows beneath your skull. Jaw broken and unhinged, you attempted to scream. Nothing._

_The skin of your back had been rubbed raw from thorns and gravel and sharp, gnarly odds and ends scattered on the hard ground. Rubbed raw from the violent rocking back and forth. There was burning pain, then there was stabbing pain; dull and then sharp.  Squeezing. Hurting. Ribs rattling and forced every last ounce of breath from your body. Death rising each time, reaching into your chest and squeezing your heart tight, blood seeping through the cracks of its cold fingers as your vision slowly began to tunnel._

_And then you saw him. The man from the woods. The outline of his silhouette was unmistakable, the ominous,  hefty weight of rough and callused hands curling around your throat before wrapping fingers that were made to kill around your neck._

"I'm gonna fucking put you in your place where your kind belongs - beneath me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ya have it. I have now pledged myself to getting back to this fic and all the other works on here. THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of you for being patient. I love you ALL
> 
> Peace and Bacon Grease xx


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